Hunt, Howl, Harm & Home
by Mardeski
Summary: Werewolf Sherlock developing an attraction to the human John Watson. Johnlock, AU, werewolves,blood/violence, possessive behavior, dubious consensual sex, explicit sex - "I hunted, yes." Sherlock stated slowly. "Only animals. Only ever animals, John." "And what, brought back the kills to your den?" John asked darkly. "I brought them back to you."
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Hunt

The first time Sherlock Holmes knew of Dr. John Watson existence, he had scented him before he had ever seen him. He had been in the lab at Bart's, when he heard the bustle of two men coming down the hall. One was Mike Stamford, a frequent acquaintance of Sherlock's. He scented of antiseptic, decaf coffee grounds, cheap aftershave and a wife's even cheaper perfume.

The second man Sherlock scented was earthy, and it piqued his interest straight away. He smelled of sun and sand, and a bit of wind. Mycroft had often admonished when Sherlock was just a cub that one cannot "smell" wind and sun, but Sherlock did. It smelled fresh, slightly burned; seeping into pores and branding an earthy scent into skin.

As they entered the lab Sherlock feigned disinterest, only allowing a quick glance. The way the man carried himself—Soldier? Absolutely. Recently returned, skin still tan. The sand and sun made sense, Afghanistan… Possibly Iraq. Sherlock inhaled deeply but quietly, as scenting gave him more of a view into a person and their being than eye sight. The man was clean, healthy, free of disease. He had a limp, but it wasn't from a physical injury. Psychological trauma? Interesting. Barely on the surface of his skin was a light scent of cheap detergent coupled with strong bleach and generic shampoo. Sherlock dimly thought it had all the trappings of a hotel stay.

Ah yes, that's why Mike brought him here.

* * *

The scent of sunshine and sand gradually grew dimmer as the weeks drew on, and Sherlock found himself oddly disappointed. John still smelled unique. Unique in a way Sherlock found eternally interesting. He smelled of rain now. London streets were slick and gray, the rain soaked into concrete and dust, and it absorbed into John's skin just as easily as the sand had.

Everyone else around Sherlock smelled… false. Fabricated lotions, cosmetics, cologne. John was… earthy. There was just no other word for it. It made Sherlock feel homesick, in an odd way. The loss of the woods, the moss on logs and the thicker mist in the air. The wolf inside raked claws against his ribcage. Yes, he missed it. Mycroft would probably howl in approval at this confession. But John was here and smelled of home. John had no use of false scents. He showered simply (light soap and shampoo) and laundered even simpler (exact minimal measurement of detergent, generic, no fabric softener). No aftershave, no cologne.

But Sherlock noticed that tonight, there was cologne.

"I'm headed out. Don't wait up."

Sherlock looked up from his phone, mid-text to Lestrade. He frowned. "Oh?" He asked, eyes not leaving the screen.

John raked a hand through his hair, sheepish smile. "Uh yeah. Date. Told you. Remember?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Right. Cheryl?"

"Sarah." John breathed exasperated, his 5th time correcting Sherlock on her name. "But right, like I said. Don't wait up." And with a snatch of his coat and a wink, he was gone.

* * *

John returned at 2:12am. Sherlock quietly lay on the couch, so still and ears perked for every sound John made. But it wasn't the sounds that Sherlock ended up focusing on, as always, it was the scents.

John smelled of sex. Of sweat and cum and arousal. His pores stank of alcohol, he had been drinking but he wasn't drunk. And he smelled of _her_. Of vanilla hand lotion and female deodorant. Everything false and fabricated.

The rain was gone.

Sherlock's heart ached and the wolf howled.

* * *

The moon was beautiful. It was full, hanging like a bright silver disk just above the edge of the trees, and it was easy to imagine the Lady looking down on the dark Earth below, seeing every everything, even sensing the still forms of the hunted, frozen in the deepest shadows. A slight smile curved Sherlock's lips as he looked up between the branches, taking in the sight along with several breaths of needed oxygen.

The transformation was quick and smooth, as always, and Sherlock pawed the ground, lifting the dirt and inhaling deeply. He wasn't bulky or powerful; he was swift, sleek and darkly beautiful. His power came from his mind; he made for a cunning adversary. When he was a pup the other pack cubs had called him trickster. 'He didn't fight fair' they cried to their nursemaids, pawing a torn ear or bloodied snout. Mycroft had eyed him carefully, but he had never been punished for his… unconventional tactics.

Sherlock bared his teeth in a grin at the memory.

He was finely muscled and lean. His coat was glossy and curled. Dark but not a true black, a hint of navy in his fur at the edges and he blended into the night as comfortably as the stars. He possessed a thick ruff around his neck, tangled and annoying and he found a dark humor in the familiarity between it and the mufflers he wore daily around his neck.

He listened and stilled. He had taken two train trips and rented an off road vehicle to indulge in this and he couldn't afford to be scented, much less seen. He didn't indulge in this need very often, perhaps twice a year, but the wolf was frustrated more than usual. Snapping and acting out inside him it was beginning to affect how he worked.

It affected how he treated John. And that was unacceptable. He had to indulge the wolf in this.

He started at a light pace. It had been so long since his last transformation he needed to familiarize with the body once more. The learning curve was quick, and within minutes he was at a pace that was purely instinctual. He ducked and swerved and wheeled around logs and rocks like he had always known they were there. The wolf howled and Sherlock humored it, lifting his head he howled along.

It wasn't long before he came upon what he had come to do. He slowed his pace as he scented the air. A burrow of hares was close. He huffed the ground, pawing, scenting. Always scenting. He lowered his body, ears flat, and he waited.

* * *

"Rabbit? Where did you get rabbit around here?" John asked, a half smile on his face and he looked inside the box.

Sherlock smiled easily back, "Come John. Lots of shops around here provide it, if you know where to look. Have you tried it before?"

John shrugged and closed the box. "No, never had. Experiment?"

"Dinner. Actually."

John's eyes widened a fraction. "Oh? Cooking now are we?"

"Well, an experiment I _suppose_." Sherlock supplied begrudgingly. "Cooking is _science _John. I would think I would find following a simple rabbit stew recipe almost…"

"Dull?" John smiled, walking over to his chair and plopping down, newspaper in hand.

"I was going to say educational." Sherlock lifted the box from the table and set it on the counter. He hesitated on his next words; he had to choose them carefully.

"You have another date tonight?" He asked as casually as he could manage, beginning to clear the countertops.

"Uhh…" John was in mid-article, he marked his place on the paper with his thumb and turned his head toward Sherlock. "No, not tonight. Why, cooking for me are we?" There was a smile in the question.

_Feeding you._ The wolf snarled. _Laying my kill at your feet._

Sherlock shrugged his right shoulder. "Yes, I suppose. Interested?"

"You cooking? Of course, this is something I need to see."

* * *

The wolf was sated and quiet. It was in the beginning annoyed that the rabbits were stripped and cooked. Rabbit was meant to be eaten raw. To be torn with fangs not cut with a dull blade. But it fell quiet when John began eating. John was delighted and helped himself to seconds. The wolf bristled with pride and Sherlock's pulse quickened. It had been a long time since both he and the wolf were in agreement.

* * *

It became a monthly outing for Sherlock. Taking two trains, sometimes three, he never went into the same woods twice. He hunted, only once coming upon the scent of a feral wolf pack. He backpedaled slowly, the markings of this pack were fresh. Feral wolves were crazed, hardly maintaining their own pack dynamic. Sherlock was swift in his escape from the area and made a mental note this was not an ideal location for future hunts.

He hunted hares, then water fowl and moved onto an adolescent boar. Once a month he would prepare his kills for John and John ate it greedily. John favored meaty and salty flavors, so Sherlock stuck to stews and chilies.

It was a delicate balance he had to play, indulging the wolf and maintaining his human control. He had one slip, a small growl that had managed to escape his lips when Lestrade's arm lingered against John for too long. The two men stared at him and Sherlock played it off like he was clearing an irritation in his throat.

He thought about texting Mycroft. Inquiring his pack leader about this new instinctual urge to provide for John. But he knew what the Alpha would say, and it scared the hell out of him.

The urge came to a head one night. He had brought back two hares and John had begun to prepare to dice the vegetables when he reached alongside Sherlock to grab the cutting board. His blonde head passed in front of Sherlock, and the wolf struck. He bit the edge of John's neck, canines striking the tender flesh. Before Sherlock could come back into himself John had cried out in surprise, cupping a hand over his neck he used his other arm to roughly shove Sherlock away, eyes suddenly dark.

_I'm sorry. _The wolf shrank back.

"I-I… John I apologize." He offered weakly, collecting himself. He smelled no blood, he hadn't drawn it, but he knew he was oh so close.

John rubbed his neck, checking his palm. "Jesus, what was that about? That hurt."

The wolf let out a whine of stress. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I don't… I don't know."

"Is that how they teach you to kiss where you're from?" John's cadence was light hearted, meant to be a joke, but his tone was dark.

"Maybe." He tested, taking a step back, giving John space. _What was happening to him. He was losing control._

John eyed him carefully, laying the Chef's knife down on the board he took a step toward him and Sherlock straightened and stilled. John raised a hand to Sherlock and rested it on his face, fingers lightly tracing his neck. Sherlock scented the air. John was excited, his pulse had quickened, eyes dilated but he wasn't fearful. He was apprehensive…curious even. The wolf wanted to nuzzle and nip that hand but Sherlock reined him in. He forced his eyes to remain impassive. Cool gray eyes regarded John steadily, and John's thumb grazed along Sherlock's top lip.

"What _are_ you." John whispered.

_Run!_ The wolf howled.

And Sherlock did.

* * *

He had run, a blur of a gray coat going down the stairs and John's voice calling his name. He made it to the street, dark and crisp in the fall air and scaled the building before John could even make it to the front door. He watched John hesitate at the sidewalk, eyes scanning the streets for him. He hadn't thought to look _up_ where Sherlock stood. John called his name once more, waiting a few beats before he headed back inside with a slam of the front door.

He reluctantly knew where he had to go.

* * *

Anthea had greeted him warmly at the door, as if they had been expecting him and Sherlock begrudgingly realized they were.

"Ah, brother dear. Do sit. Anthea, thank you love, I'll take it from here." Mycroft said warmly. Anthea nodded and slid the parlor door shut. "Oh, Sherlock." The Alpha began to pour himself a scotch. "What a mess."

Sherlock's face burned, his breathing steady. "And just how much am I to assume you know?" He asked sharply.

"Oh … Just your monthly jaunts to the countryside. Different sides every time, very clever of you. Just like I taught you."

Sherlock set his jaw and remained quiet.

"And hares, Sherlock? Might I ask why such a weak animal? Hardly a worthy animal for one to hunt. Why not a stag?"

Sherlock huffed air sharply through his nose, as if he'd heard an amusing joke. "I wasn't looking to get killed. I was looking for… Dinner."

Mycroft smiled gently. "Ah yes, for you and Dr. Watson, is that right?" He set his glass down on a coaster. "Tell me, why are you here?"

His Alpha had asked a direct question, and he was compelled to answer by order. "I bit him… Tried to. Not me, the-," Sherlock waved his hand and dropped it on the armrest. "I didn't break the skin." He continued, feeling Mycroft's eyes bore into him. "I lost control for but a second. But I feel John is… Let's just say suspicious."

"Hm, yes. I would imagine. And yes, it was _you_ Sherlock. By Our Lady, all of our teachings and conversations on this and you still can't see it. The wolf inside is _you_, not some inward demon taking control when it deems it necessary. The more you deny, the more separate the two the more likely of a feral—"

"I'm quite aware." Sherlock snapped, he couldn't meet Mycroft's eyes.

The brothers fell silent. Mycroft took another drag of his scotch.

"Why—Do I feel like this. With John. Only John." Sherlock said barely above a whisper, but Mycroft heard loud and clear.

"Brother, we don't always get the luxury of choosing our mates. Sometimes the Lady chooses them for us. Which is what this could be."

_Mate._

Sherlock continued on, as if Mycroft had never uttered the word. "He wasn't scared. Not a trace of fear in his scent. He was surprised, but curious." He paused. "I trust him, Mycroft."

"Does he trust you?"

Sherlock hesitated. "I don't know. Yes, with his life if you were to ask him. But he would tell you he doesn't know me. I'm his friend, and yet I'm a stranger. I don't know how he stands it."

Mycroft crossed the fireplace, resting his arm against the mantle. "He is a unique human, indeed." He finished his drink. "Go home, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood, trying to make eye contact with brother, but the Alpha denied it. "I have to ask—if I can tell him. Please."

Mycroft gave him a sad smile. "No, Sherlock. I can't allow that. You should know that. Humans, even a unique one, don't understand."

"Anthea does." Sherlock did his best to take the bitterness out of his voice.

Mycroft eyed him carefully. "Anthea is an exception. A _small_ exception. And it took years, Sherlock. A foundation of trust you can't even begin to imagine. Between your trust issues and Doctor Watson's… I can't imagine the foundation won't crack much less receive the permits." Mycroft smiled at his own play on words. Sherlock glowered. "I need to protect the pack." He stated simply. "This is a serious matter Sherlock. You cannot disobey this order."

"You can trust John, Mycroft." Sherlock stood his ground, squaring himself against Mycroft. "You said he was my mate."

Mycroft didn't take the bait. "I said he _could_ be, Sherlock. And I hope he can someday prove his loyalty to you. And to us. Good night, dear brother."

The parlor door opened as if on cue, and he was lead out the door.

* * *

He timed his arrival back at the flat the next morning, knowing John would have left for his day job. He fiddled with his phone, a distractedly annoying habit he had developed, willing a text to come in. He needed a case, a distraction. The website was bare, even John's blog, while wildly successful, hadn't cultivated as many legitimately leads as of late.

He showered, and proceeded to pace the flat nervously in his robe. The hours ticked away and the sun sank behind the city. His mind supplied him with multiple possible ways he could get through this with John.

_What __are__ you?_

John had provided the question. And while he had fled (bad idea, not at _all_ suspicious) he came up with six reasonable responses to give, depending on John's first initial interaction with him when he came home.

_If he comes home. He could be with __her__._ The wolf paced inside his mind's eye. _Hunt for him. Track._

Sherlock huffed sharply, perishing the thought. John would come home.

He heard the keys in the door at dusk, and an odd panic filled him. He shouldn't be standing awkwardly in the living room, waiting like this. It was intimidating, he should be casual. Casual where? His eyes searched frantically, before he quickly made it for the couch. He held his phone, tapping nonsensically to give the illusion of being engrossed and forced his body to appear lackadaisical.

John made it up the stairs, and Sherlock scented the air as he always did when John came home. Where he'd been, what he'd eaten, who he'd touched, was always just a scent away. But John had a different smell on him, and Sherlock forced his eyes to remain on the screen. _What is that?_ The wolf pawed anxiously. It was unfamiliar, foreign and oh so sweet.

"Evening." John said, not as warmly as he usually did, but it was a greeting nonetheless. "Back again?" He pulled a small army bag off his shoulder and gripped it in his hand.

Sherlock kept his eyes and fingers busy on his phone. "Yes. Obviously." He motioned dully to the couch. _It's in his bag, what is it it's in his bag. _The wolf huffed against him.

"Everything—Alright?" John asked, making his way to the couch. "You ehm, left in a hurry last night."

"Ah yes. Things do come up."

"Hm, right." John nodded exaggeratedly, biting his bottom lip. Sherlock waited.

"Whelp, good night then." John turned, swinging the bag across his shoulder he headed out into the hallway to the stairs to his room.

Good night then? Sherlock had six possible reactions from John and—that wasn't one of them. The wolf eyed the bag suspiciously as John turned the corner, but Sherlock ignored it for now.

"Good night John."

* * *

He woke up in bed with the pleasure centers of his brain firing off every synapse. He bolted out of his deep sleep, inhaling deeply his body involuntarily shuddered.

It was dark, around 3am he had to guess. He lifted his head and huffed several times. That sweet smell was back. Not just sweet, but sharp and Sherlock followed the scent.

He was silent, the flat on Baker street, which normally creaked and moaned on pressure points in steps on its old flooring, let Sherlock pass without a squeak. He knew this flat, knew every weak floor board. He needed to be stealthy, silent. He scented the air, huffing, huffing—it was close. The scent was close and strong.

He found it on the kitchen table in an unassuming glass jar. Dried herbs and flowers, ashen and brown. _That wasn't there before you idiot! _his brain supplied frantically.

But it was so enticing... it drew him... before he knew what he was doing, he found himself pulling the jar to him and opening it. The scent came out even more pungently and hit him between the eyes. He wanted to rub against the dried flowers and leaves in the jar... to take them out into the moonlight and roll in them. Plunging his hand into the jar, he pulled out a handful of the dried plants, unaware he was growling and had forgotten everything else.

The sound of a gun's hammer being pulled back brought him into reality.

"I fucking knew it."

Sherlock's hackles rose as he could feel the tension suddenly in the air. His back was to John, who stood several meters back in the flat, practically up against the wall.

He carefully sat the jar back down on the table and smiled grimly. "Wolfsbane. God, you're so clever. You always surprise me."

"Shut it." John snapped. "Turn around. Make a sudden move and I will end you. I promise."

_Oh, I believe you John._ There was fear now in the air. But it wasn't John's

Sherlock turned, slowly as John had asked. John was steady, and Sherlock took in how strong he looked. He had squared off against Sherlock, fighting position, gun raised straight at him, his other hand aiding supporting in gripping the bottom of the weapon.

_How do we fix this?_ The wolf asked anxiously. Instead of dozens of answers in which he normally had he only had questions.

"How—how did you know-" Sherlock started to ask.

"What, about wolves?" John spat. "Had dealings with your kind back in Afghanistan. Took out my whole squad. Desert wolves. Taliban forces suddenly turned into monsters before our eyes." John's eyes were murderous and the wolf shrank back.

"Tore them apart. Made me watch then let me live. Not sure which is worse." John didn't blink. "Is that what you were going to do Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No… John I'd –I'd never hurt you."

John gave a bark of a laugh, it was strangled and Sherlock flinched at the noise. John yanked down the collar of his shirt, revealing a dark, black bruise at the crook of his neck. "Oh, is this you not _hurting_ me." His voice was venom.

"John…" Sherlock started carefully. "That's different. I'm different." Oh God, Mycroft was going to have his head, if John didn't blow it off first.

"Yeah. Different. Sure." John's eyes were shiny in the dark. He used his gun to motion into the kitchen. "What about all your forest friends?" His question was open and Sherlock hesitated, wondering where this was going.

"I'm a doctor Sherlock. I know wounds. No pellets, no snare markings. Deep, one shot puncture bites breaking their necks. Hardly any blood, it's so quick. Only one creature I can think of who hunts that efficiently. That cleanly."

"I hunted, yes." Sherlock stated slowly. "Only animals. Only ever animals, John."

"And what, brought back the kills to your den?" John asked darkly.

"I brought them back to you."

John's chest heaved in an uneven breath he hadn't voluntarily taken. "Why."

Sherlock was this far into truth, he couldn't back pedal now. "I needed to provide for you. Hunt for you. Feed you."

"Are you trying to be funny?" John asked dubious. "Because we know it doesn't suit you."

"No. I'm not—No. The wolf, inside—John, it's complicated." He felt exhausted.

"I've got all night."

"Can you please, put the gun down. Please? I won't…I would never." He left it at that.

John's fingers relaxed and Sherlock could see his brain working. His eyes revealed nothing and it unnerved the wolf.

He dropped the gun to his side but pointed a finger at Sherlock. "You _stay_ there."

Sherlock nodded and stayed silent, allowing John the next move.

"How many of you? You have a pack, yes?" John leaned up against the wall more eavily now.

Sherlock weighed the consequences of his answer heavily. "Yes, I belong to a pack. I can't tell you how many."

John bared his teeth in a sarcastic grin. "Ah, sure you can't. And why is that? Government secret?" And it was like a light went off in John's mind, his eyes widened. "Govern-… Jesus Christ, Mycroft…Of course."

Sherlock was filled with dread, his heart beating briskly in his chest. "John, you have no idea what you're getting into. You can't even begin to understand. _I _barely understand it. Pack dynamics are complicated. Roles and rules, you know I don't subscribe to them. This is dangerous. John, this whole conversation is dangerous."

John considered the information, nodding. They fell silent for a beat, before John's next question. "Why did you bite me?"

"I didn't." John glared and before he could say anything Sherlock added, "_I_ didn't. The wolf did."

"But that's you, Sherlock."

He shook his head, frustrated. Why didn't anyone _understand_. "I'm different. There's two parts, instead of one. Sometimes we agree. Most times we don't. Again, complicated."

"Again, all night."

Sherlock shifted his stance and his peripheral didn't miss the twitch of John's fingers on the gun at his side. "John, I've gone _years_ without the wolf. It's there," Sherlock motioned to his mind. "He keeps me sharp, wary. He's instinctual, observant -and it's saved my life more than I can count. But with you," Sherlock found himself struggling for the right words, and settled on truth. "With you he fights to get out."

"What, to kill me?"

"Never." Sherlock breathed quickly, horrified. He hoped the tone carried across to John. "Provide, John. Provide and protect."

"And why me?" John asked sharply, his posture suddenly rigid.

"Again, complicated." But Sherlock continued before John could protest. "Your scent. You smell like the earth. The first time I ever saw you, you smelled of sand. You know that? I asked you Afghanistan of Iraq and explained it away because of your tan and training but it was so much more than that. And now you smell like rain. Sometimes like the London fog, which carries in the scents of the wild from kilometers away. And it just _clings_ to you. In your skin and hair." Sherlock waited a beat before continuing on. "You're loyal and show no fear. You've protected me. You've killed for me. I talk to you even when you aren't here, because I can't bare the thought that you are not by my side. I can barely comprehend the notion. When I'm with you-I'm home." Sherlock felt naked.

John wouldn't meet his eyes, rubbing his trigger finger against the grip as a comfort. "That—I think—is the most honest, open thing you've ever said to me." John said quietly.

Sherlock continued in a softer tone, with every earnest fiber he could find. "I'm sorry… About Afghanistan. I'm so sorry that happened to you. No one should ever face that. You must have been terrified."

John nodded once. "Not so much terrified as feeling insane. Impossible to explain to my command. Part of the reason I was discharged. You know, other than the bullet." He shrugged his left shoulder for effect. "But I found others who had been discharged, who told similar stories. Did some research… But honestly couldn't tell if you if feel any saner."

"Research?" Sherlock inquired.

John loosened his grip on the gun, before deciding on locking the safety and putting it down on the desk. Sherlock hadn't realized how much tension was in his body until it flooded out of him at John's decision. "Yeah, research. That'll have to be discussed on another night. Too bloody tired right now."

"Another night? There will be others?" Sherlock asked, eyes searching. "You'll stay?"

John gave him a cautious look, and licked his bottom lip. "Yeah, Sherlock. This is… weird. To say the least of this situation. But I understand, about needing to protect your family. Or you, ehm," John waved his hand awkwardly. "Pack. Yeah, sure of course I do. You couldn't have known that I would already have known about all that. But I'm here and I'll stay. Of course I'll stay."

The wolf brimmed with elation but Sherlock repressed any showing of outward emotion. "Thank you." He said with a clear of his throat.

John nodded. "Yeah, sure." John gave a grim smile and carded a hand through his hair. "That was a hell of a thing though, your confession about me. How are we going to handle that?"

Sherlock frowned. "Confession?"

The doctor gave a half smile, shaking his head. "Christ, forget it. It's late. I'm exhausted and feel like hell. I'm going to bed."

Sherlock didn't miss how John gave him a wide birth while passing him to head up the stairs to his room. The door clicked shut behind John and Sherlock felt the dread fester back inside him. Confession? What confession? Hadn't he simply stated the obvious truth?

"Good night John." He whispered, for the second time that night.

* * *

A few quiet, awkward days passed before a case was brought to them by Lestrade. It was a simple case, just skimming the briefest of Lestrade's notes gave Sherlock two solid conclusions that could play out as the end result of it all. He took it, it was better than nothing and it gave him an excuse to go out. And even more of an excuse to bring John along with him.

John hadn't been necessarily distant, not at all as much as Sherlock had presumed he would be. He did take great pains to avoid Sherlock's touch. Passing a phone or tea kettle he would nimbly maneuver his fingers so as not to connect with him. The wolf grieved the loss of contact and Sherlock reluctantly agreed with it. He didn't realize how often they made physical contact until it suddenly vanished.

John's scent hadn't changed at all as the wolf had darkly reminded Sherlock's brain with the awful thought of his so-called "confession". That John might retaliate against him by hiding his natural scent. Spraying cologne or applying product to his hair. But John did none of these things, and as fall turned into winter, the rain became heavier and more frequent and John soaked it up, almost leaving Sherlock breathless.

They finished with a few hours of sunlight left when John had asked about dinner. He'd smiled and nodded in agreement; an excuse to keep John at his side was always appreciated.

They ended up at a pub neither of them had tried before. It was dim and smoky and the wolf hated it. There was only one entrance he could see and very few windows. It felt more like a natural den than he would have liked to admit, but he liked knowing where the exits were.

_Not good_ The wolf alerted him.

He caught the scent briefly, which stilled him as his senses came into focus, pushing back the traces of smoke that drifted in from the sidewalk, the alcohol, and body odor that permeated from the pub. Another wolf, not of his pack, feral, and he curled his fingers around John's sleeve and a low growl escaped his throat.

"What? What is it?" John asked quietly, but his voice was elevated, alarmed.

Too many people, too many scents and Sherlock struggled to find the wolf in the crowd. _Getting rusty, out of practice_ the wolf snarled, and it was true. He felt off his game, threatened and John was with him. He had to protect John.

Their food was placed in front of them but Sherlock was already pulling John out of the booth. "Yes, alright." John sighed. "This is getting old hat, you know." He stated bitterly, tossing notes onto the table as Sherlock led him outside. He huffed the air, inhaling, trying to find the source. But it was either gone or he had truly forgotten how to hunt when it really counted.

The cab pulled them up to 221B Baker and Sherlock felt the wolf pace in his mind, circling again and again in a symmetrical stalking pattern that wouldn't stop. Impossible to calm in this state, too agitated to reason or quell.

John followed up behind him. Standing in the kitchen he stretched his arms wide. "Okay well, we're home. Mind telling me what that was about? Danger, I presume?"

"You presume correctly." Sherlock muttered, curling a finger down on a blind so he could view the street.

"Yeah well, what are we talking here? Something from a case or something—else."

"Else." He stated bluntly. John sighed heavily.

Sherlock turned and took several long strides until he was face up against John. He must have moved quicker than intended as John jumped at the sudden invasion of personal space.

"John—I need to do something." His face was only an inch away.

John swallowed, nervous? Sherlock took a step back, and John relaxed. "Yeah, alright. What's that?"

"Would you trust me to do something, if it was to protect you?" He kept his tone as even as possible.

"I uh—" John hesitated, and Sherlock's heart dropped. John's eyes shifted quickly, thinking. "I suppose-"

_Good enough_

Sherlock leaned into John, who went rigid at the motion. He felt the brush of skin as Sherlock touched his cheek to him, rubbing in one smooth motion along his jaw line, turning his head slightly as he did so. John's left side tremored ever so slight, and Sherlock repeated the motion, rubbing against the other side of John's face, jaw line and neck. Sherlock's scent was sharp, musky and fresh. It was unique to him and he needed to mark John. The wolf had tried, with the bite, but that wouldn't be acceptable to John at the moment. Sherlock knew this scent of his was undetectable to John, reserved only for other wolves as a claim scent.

He hadn't realized that his hands were on John's hips, as he pulled back he jerked his arms away and took a few steps back, his pulse racing.

John swayed and blinked at him. "That-What was that?"

"Complicated." The only answer Sherlock could provide.

John contemplated the action, eyes downcast and searching. Sherlock tilted his head in a curious gesture before John raised his eyes up again. "I thought—I thought you were going to kiss me."

The wolf's heart stilled, for the briefest of moments. "It was… in a way." He said vaguely.

John brought a hand to his neck, gently rubbing. "Well, that was… different."

"Do you remember what you had asked? You had asked if that's how I learned how to kiss. Well it is. It's different. But it's—" He hesitated, faltering on the words.

John didn't let him drop it. "It's what?"

"Affection."

John considered this with seriousness Sherlock hadn't seen in him before. John took a step, closing the gap between them. Before Sherlock could register the movement, John circled an arm around Sherlock's neck, pulling him down, he mimicked the motion Sherlock displayed against him earlier. John rubbed his jaw line against Sherlock's, and down around his neck. Sherlock huffed a low animalistic groan, a feeling inside him stirring in what he once deemed dead and buried, and John mimicked the sound back, huffing against Sherlock's skin. The noise made the wolf reel with excitement, and Sherlock buried his face under John's neck, inhaling deeply.

"You don't know—what you're doing." Sherlock whispered against John's neck, so close he could taste the man's pulse.

"Affection?" John breathed.

"It's dangerous." Sherlock attempted to pull back, to shift away but he couldn't. John was against him, John was _marking_ him and God, he felt like a wolf possessed.

John rumbled against him, "And here I am."

They stood together, their scents intermingled in the air of their flat, and what felt like hours was actually only 19 seconds before John finally pulled away from him. The wolf mourned the loss and Sherlock crushed the urge for a whine to escape his throat.

John checked his watch and sighed heavily. "Nearly 19:00. I'm still hungry. You owe me dinner." Leave it to John to break the awkward tension.

"Takeaway?" Sherlock asked, reaching for his phone in his pocket.

"Not… quite. No. Not what I was thinking…"

Sherlock frowned. "What then? Angelo's?"

"I was thinking rabbit?" John's eyes went downcast, before peering up at him timidly.

"We disposed of the rabbit the other day—" Sherlock paused, realization entering in his mind. "What, new rabbit? You want me to hunt for you?" He felt the rush of adrenaline enter his veins and if John were a more observant man, he would have noticed the dilation of his eyes.

"I'd like to—go with—if that's alright. Is that alright?" John awkwardly bit his lip with that same timid stare.

_Hunt as a pack?_ The wolf was excited at the prospect but Sherlock felt the trepidation fill him. If he left with John to his "countryside" Mycroft would certainly know about how much John knew. If Mycroft didn't _already_ know. But he hadn't received a call, much less a text, from Mycroft since their last meeting.

And what of hunting with John? John would see him. See _him_, his true self. No one outside the pack had seen him in his wolf state. Was that something too personal for him to bare?

_Too personal for your mate?_ The wolf questioned.

He must have hesitated too long, as John's eyes fell and he shrugged. "It's fine. Really, I was just asking. It's fine." He gave a step back, embarrassed.

Sherlock ran his tongue along his bottom lip. "Not tonight. Tomorrow?"

John's head lifted with a smile. "Yeah?" He asked hopeful.

Sherlock nodded and gave a small corner smile back. "Yes. It's two trains to where I have in mind. We'll have to head early. Dress warmly. And in the meantime, let me call us some takeaway for tonight."

John's smiled widened, "Fantastic."

* * *

The train was blissfully quiet and essentially empty, and John slept through most of it. His head tilted toward Sherlock, the wolf rested his head on top of the doctor's, inhaling his scent that still carried strong traces of Sherlock's.

They reached their final destination and rented an older off road vehicle. They drove out of the town, and 5 minutes from their true destination Sherlock felt the anxiety fill back inside him.

John must have felt the shift in atmosphere as he asked Sherlock what was wrong.

"Just feel like this might be a bad idea." Sherlock stated matter of fact.

"_You_ have a bad idea?" John laughed, but when Sherlock didn't respond he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with." He added seriously.

"Not me. Mycroft."

John nodded. "Government secrets?"

"Something like that. I had asked before, if I could tell you about all this. He told me no. This could end badly."

"Shit." John looked out the window. "Well, I figured you out. Couldn't you tell him that? Could explain it to him. Explain about Afghanistan. Your brother is quick, he would get it. You wouldn't be in trouble."

They arrived along the bank of trees and Sherlock threw the gear into park. "I'm not worried about myself, John. I'm worried he might do something to do you. The pack is all Mycroft knows. It's his entire world, his sole responsibility to protect."

John reached out to his hands, which had gripped the steering wheel tightly, white knuckled. "Hey," He said softly. "Hey I'll be alright." John's hands brushed along Sherlock's.

Sherlock relaxed and released the wheel, focusing his eyes, "We're here."

John had dressed appropriately, with long cargo khakis, layered shirts along with a fitted military jacket and sturdy boots. He carried the small, military fitted backpack as well. Sherlock hadn't dress appropriately for the woods, as he was still dressed for the city with his muffler and long coat. But then again, Sherlock wouldn't need this wardrobe for today. With nimble fingers he unbuttoned his shirt alongside the SUV and scented the air deeply. No one for at least four klicks and Sherlock grinned.

"Going to ehm, do that here? Now?" John asked, his eyes scanning the wide open space around them anxiously.

"No one around for kilometers John. I'm sure of it. Besides, where else would I put my clothes for safe keeping?" He asked as he tossed his jacket and shirt into the back of the vehicle.

"I'll wait over here then." John said quickly as he rounded the corner of the vehicle, his back pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock hesitated with the sound of John's tone. Was he embarrassed? Sherlock wasn't, but then again Sherlock had decided he was comfortable with his body and being around John. He resolved to let it rest.

He clicked his mobile phone to silent, and tucked it securely in his jacket pocket for safe keeping. Shutting the door he steadied himself, ensuring an even heart rate, he _shifted_ and took a moment to clear his head as all the smells came into even sharper focus. He shook twice, and huffed loudly and he heard John turn around.

"Jesus!" John jumped back, and Sherlock caught the sudden spike of fear and adrenaline in the air. John collected himself just as fast and placed a hand over his heart. "I'm sorry." He said quickly. "Shit, I'm sorry. Just-I was expecting it but not really and just—wow look at you." He breathed.

Sherlock attempted, and probably failed miserably, at looking as unimposing as possible. He sat, but even in that position his head cleared John's waist. He lowered his head and perked his ears up, and he thumped his tail against the dirt twice. He'd seen domesticated dogs with similar postures be praised and cooed at. Sherlock didn't want to lower himself to the behaviors of a simple _dog_ but he did acknowledge it would be a familiar and safer stance for John.

John approached cautiously, and again Sherlock thumped his tail twice. He knelt before Sherlock, who lowered his head more and rested it against John's chest.

_I won't hurt you you're safe_

He felt John's hand run along the side of his face before he pulled back, unsure. "May I?" He asked tentative.

Sherlock huffed and pressed his head against John, whose hands fell on both sides of his muzzle and along his neck. John combed a confident hand along his neck, appreciating the thickness of his coat. He reached his chest and frowned, "You're all snarled here." He said softly as his sure fingers raked through. Sherlock pinned his ears back, embarrassed. But with intimate care, a surgeon's care, John combed and detangled the fur, smoothing down the ruff. "Can't let those get too bad, they'll form knots and—well you know." John waved his hand and smiled. "I like it though. Almost like a mane. Almost like your mufflers!" He said the last sentence with a laugh.

_Yes! I though so too_ Sherlock would have said, but all he could do was whine and hope John could have some understanding.

"Well, can we be off?" John asked as he stood and Sherlock followed suit. "I know you said nobody around for kilometers but all this bloody open space makes me nervous."

Sherlock understood and started off into the woods.

* * *

It was chilly when they entered the forest and even more so when they had gotten deeper inside. John kept up pace with him, even if he was holding back for the benefit of the human.

"Going a bit slow, don't you think?" John asked, as he skipped over a fallen limb.

_Oh, you couldn't keep up with me _the wolf breathed.

"Bet you think I couldn't keep up." John smiled, "Bet you I could. I kept up with you to try and catch that bloody cabbie. Over rooftops and cars. Give me a chance, I bet I could surprise you. Boot camp all over again."

Sherlock stopped and turned his head, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth in what he hoped John could interpret as a laugh.

"Laughing at me!? You prat! I bet you I could. Go on then, show me what you got!"

Sherlock squared his shoulders, focused his eyes straight ahead, and launched himself into the forest.

"Shit!" He heard John exclaim, before it was just the rush of wind in his ears. He bounded over moss filled logs, through a long stretch of long grass, weaved between a set of trees and down a stream. He slid but maintained control as he came to the bank of it. He lifted his head back in a moment of searching for John, but the human was too far back for him to hear or scent. His chest heaved in the excitement of the chase, but the wolf was disappointed with the lack of an adequate opponent.

"Hey." Like an electric shock, Sherlock jolted around to the voice, which was directly behind him, not a foot away. John was muddy, his breath borderline ragged and sweat was forming on his brow, blond hair clinging to his face. He bared his teeth in a grin. "I got you." And before the wolf could ask _where what HOW!?_ John reached and bopped him on the nose, turned and ran off again.

_YES!_ the wolf sang, and Sherlock took chase.

* * *

John had been right, Sherlock had entirely underestimated him. John looked strong and fit but he was also beautifully conditioned. He had no fear of low hanging branches or of jumping several meters from a fallen tree onto the forest floor. His sense of balance was impeccable, and they weaved along together against the boulders and moss floorings like a dance. It had been so long since he'd run alongside another pack member, Sherlock's muscles sang out in sweet relief.

Sherlock slowed finally when they came upon an adequately clean source of water at a full stream. He dipped his head and lapped up the water ravenously. John took the moment to sling the backpack from his shoulders and unzip, revealing a water bottle. He backed up against a tree and slid down, tilting his head back to drain the container. He sighed heavily and used his sleeve of his jacket to wipe his lips and brow.

Sherlock drank his fill and scented the air. Light was beginning to fade from the trees as dusk took over. John smelled of pollen, mist, moss and tree bark and everything so glorious Sherlock could get drunk off it. He lay next to John, Sphinx like; he crossed his paws over themselves and looked up at his pack member expectantly.

"I uh—" John smiled and put the empty bottle back in his bag, zipping up quickly. "Don't know if I have more of that in me today." He closed his eyes and rested his head against the oak. His pulse was still quick. "That was crazy." John placed a hand on Sherlock's head, and rubbed his fingers along the back of his ear.

Sherlock stilled, and felt a shift in John's scent that concerned him. Anxiety maybe? But he couldn't label it quite yet. He laid his head on John's lap and gave a soft sigh.

"I ehm," John cleared his throat, pausing. Sherlock waited. He noticed the shininess of John's eyes. "I never thanked you." He continued. Another pause, and Sherlock waited again. "For the leg. For you, helping me with my leg." John wouldn't look down at him, instead staring at the distance. "So ehm. Thank you." He ended awkwardly, biting his lip in that nervous way he always did.

John's fingers continued to stroke Sherlock's neck and along his head and ears. They were short, soft strokes and the wolf allowed them. Something was maybe wrong, right now in the moment. John was anxious, suddenly upset. The strokes through his fur weren't for his comfort, but for John's. Weren't they having a good time? Sherlock's mind raced but he lay still, allowing John's ministrations.

The tension was so thick, Sherlock felt it shift a moment before the dam broke. "I was so alone. I was so alone and you saved me." And John began to cry. He pulled his legs up to his chest, hiding his face. Sherlock was forced to move his head and sit up. He gave an anxious whine against John, and the blonde man wrapped his arms around Sherlock tightly, burrowing his face into the thick ruff of his neck.

Sherlock tensed but sat still as John clung to him and cried. His breathing was shallow, and Sherlock knew John was trying to be quiet. He was never good with this. Not good with comforting and even less so with words to help comfort. But now, he literally didn't have words. He had no voice that John could understand. He only had his presence. He pressed into John, giving a hint of reinforced pressure as an acknowledgement of John's distress. He dropped his head alongside John's shoulder and back and gave a deep, long inhale and breathed out through his nose slowly in an attempt to calm him. John mimicked, taking a deep, long inhale right after the wolf.

_We were alone too._

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." And Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as John pulled away from him, eyes suddenly dry as stones but shiny as he wiped his face angrily with his sleeve. "Christ." He muttered and shook his head.

The tears were still on his cheeks, running lines down his neck. Sherlock reached forward and gave one light lap with his tongue along John's throat, bringing in the salty tears. John pulled back ever so slight. "Ehg, gross." John smiled though and laughed, and that was enough for Sherlock, who thumped his tail against the tree, breaking the tension.

John wiped his hand along where he had licked and laughed again. "Sorry but gross. No offense. Needs some getting used to." Sherlock let his tongue drop along side his mouth again and John laughed again and rolled his eyes.

"Okay, enough of that rubbish." John brought his hand to his eyes and rubbed once more, clearing his throat. "Time for dinner, yes?"

* * *

It was nearly dusk, and Sherlock worried John would begin to stumble as it turned into twilight. But John, as he did, surprised him. He followed in step behind Sherlock as the wolf scented the ground, searching. John was quiet, military training making him an exceptional hunter with his stealth and obedience. His breathing was hushed and leveled and his eyes were always searching. He made for an excellent pack member.

He scented upon a burrow a few meters away and puffed out a small breath, but it was enough to signal John to lay low. They both sunk into the moist grass and he heard John giggle nervously. Sherlock pinned his ears back and gave a huff into John's neck where John correctly interpreted it as a _shut up!_ and he stilled. "I'm sorry but this is all pretty amazing." He whispered with a grin. Sherlock took in the soft, shallow breaths and dilated eyes and quickly pondered over their territorial sprint adventure of the day and realized for certain that yes, Dr. John Watson was very much a thrill seeker.

John impressively didn't shift an inch or make a noise in the solid 12 minutes they waited. He was patient and attentive, eyes always scanning ahead. The only part of them that moved was Sherlock's ears, as they switched from back to front with every passing flutter of noise. 13 minutes in the rabbits began to gather around their burrow, ready to fall in for the night.

The rabbits were large and well fed. Sherlock didn't imagine they had many enemies in this particular forest. He hadn't caught the scent of another predator aside from a small fox since they'd been here. But that certainly didn't mean they would be slow. He squared shoulders, pulling them taunt and launched himself. He caught one easily by surprise, the other four bolted in all separate direction. He snapped the neck of the one, dropped it immediately and wheeled around and caught the back leg of a second. It squealed and the wolf tossed it in the air and caught it by its neck and with a quick snap, it fell limp.

He carried the wilted rabbit over to John, who had sat up in the grass and watched him approach. The wolf had a bit of a strut as he dropped the rabbit in front of John and Sherlock admonished it. It was just a _rabbit_. A silly, fat rabbit that almost any dog could have caught. It was hardly anything to take pride in, as Mycroft had reminded him. But John looked visibly impressed as he lifted the rabbit carefully and began to stand up.

"Bloody hell. Amazing. You're simply amazing."

Sherlock felt his tail wag once and quickly shut down the impulse. No need for _that_ to become habit when he was pleased. He lifted his head at John in acknowledgement.

"Right then. Home?" John asked as he gingerly held the rabbit by its hind legs, dangling at his side. "And ehm- hope you've been keeping track because I have no idea where we are in relation to the 4x4…"

Sherlock lifted the second rabbit in his jaws and jerked his head west, and started at a trot.

* * *

When they reached the SUV the temperature took a plummet just at the darkness finally settled over the area. John's left leg had begun to shake in nervous exhaustion, and he still provided Sherlock with privacy as he shifted back, and took his clothes from the back seat.

Sherlock was dirty, that was for certain. He brushed his hands through his hair and found bits of twig and brush entangled in it. He combed it out before John came around to check his status. He threw on his shirt, trousers and shoes and walked to the back of the 4x4.

"Good then?" Sherlock asked, clearing his throat. John had placed the rabbits in the box in the cargo area and nodded.

The ride back was more comfortable than the ride there. They were quiet and settled, and John rested his head against the window, checking his watch.

"Last train leaves in 24 minutes." John muttered quietly, eyes closing.

"We'll make it, trust me."

"I do."

Sherlock grinned wide, he knew John couldn't see it.

And in the backseat inside Sherlock's jacket, a silent text came in.

**What are you doing, Sherlock? M**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Howl

Sherlock felt the cold dread fill inside him as they reached their flat just after midnight. After they had collected their items and packed it on the train, Sherlock had fished his mobile out and read the text from his Alpha.

**What are you doing, Sherlock? M**

It was a dull anxiety and his body went numb as they boarded, but he hadn't let on to John that any issue was at hand. He had smiled easily when the blonde man had made a comical reference to a woman in the back with toilet paper stuck to her heel and had sat relaxed and comfortable while the train departed.

John was exhausted, unperturbed and still in a state of excitement from the day. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to put a damper on it or cause him alarm. As the trolley of snacks had gone through the aisle John practically bought half the cart and inhaled it. They hadn't eaten since on the train ride prior, and as John offered him a turkey sandwich Sherlock shook his head. His nerves wouldn't have been able to handle it right now and he needed to think.

He would fix this in the morning. He would sleep on it, he would think on it, and he would fix it. He would explain it to Mycroft, just as John had said. The man wasn't a threat; he wouldn't harm their pack. He could enhance it. He just had to explain it and make Mycroft see.

And even as they stored their kills for safekeeping for tomorrow night's dinner and said their respective good nights, the dread wouldn't fade out. He took a cold shower as they aided him to think and wondered dully if this would come down to a physical fight between himself and Mycroft.

They had come to physical heads once, over a decade before, and Mycroft had all but ripped his throat out. Sherlock was beaten so soundly it took him weeks to physically recover from the brutalization and the thought of a rematch made him shiver.

He stretched out on the bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.

* * *

Despite the earlier day's physical activity and the late night arriving at their flat, John Watson had risen promptly at 7am and left for work at 7:27. Sherlock laid still in his bed, listening to the commotion John tended to create when he got ready. The shower, the kettle, the swearing as he couldn't find a tie, the toaster, the jingle of keys, shoes on stairs and the quiet click of the door as he left.

Sherlock then rose; whipping clothes from his closet he dressed, pulled his phone from the charger and gave the door a satisfying slam as he left.

He hailed a cab and as he settled in the back, he texted his brother.

**Coming to you now. SH**

A full minute later.

**Most inopportune time. Please schedule with Anthea. M**

Sherlock growled. **Need to see you now. SH **His thumb lingered over the send button before he carefully revised. **Please, I need to see you now. Important. SH**

Three long minutes passed before the next text came in. **All right. Rescheduled a meeting. Hurry up then. M**

As he arrived at the front steps the door swung open before he could reach up to knock, and his Alpha stood before him with such an accusing stare Sherlock nearly shrank back.

He scented the air as he walked into the foyer and noticed with trepidation he and Mycroft were the only ones in the entire household. No servants, no guests, no Anthea. His hackles rose instinctually.

"You can relax, Sherlock. We aren't going to have a row. Everyone just happens to be out at the moment." Mycroft said with a roll of his eye as he made his way through the hall. "Drink?" He asked casually as he also motioned for Sherlock to sit in a designated chair.

Sherlock shook his head mutely as he sat obediently. Mycroft was so utterly calm, and his scent was completely devoid of any emotion. No anger, no anxiety, no anything but the strong scent of a powerful Alpha before him. The wolf was quiet, almost as if he knew Sherlock needed full control of this situation to help resolve it.

"So," Mycroft started. "Begin."

* * *

John caught himself nodding at his desk as his elbow slipped and his head nearly caught the edge. He jolted with a start and cleared his throat, silently berating himself. He should have called out sick, but he hadn't reached his probationary period to allow paid sick leave and as much as he hated to admit it, he needed the money as Sherlock's cases had begun to dwindle lately.

His left shoulder ached and as he stretched it, Sarah opened his door without a knock.

"Dr. Watson, one more patient to see you." Her voice wasn't as bright as it had been in weeks passed, and John felt a pang of guilt.

"I thought I was done with patients for today? Just finishing up the paperwork." He motioned to his desk for added effect.

Sarah clicked her tongue, annoyed. "Yes, you were. But this patient was set to meet with me but now he is asking for you."

"Myself specifically?" John asked, surprised.

"Yes, you specifically." She bit out. "Can I send him in now? I too have paperwork to complete."

John sighed heavily and checked his watch. "Yes, of course. Send him in." He straightened his tie.

Sarah nodded. "Jim, Dr. Watson is set to see you now."

* * *

Sherlock knew the fine for lying to Mycroft, and the cost was simply too high. He spoke honestly and sincerely. He told of John's wolfsbane experiment, of his trauma in Afghanistan, the Feral in the pub and of their hunt in the forest. He left out some details like his "confession", their "marking" incident and the finer points of emotional intimacy in the woods. Lying by omission wasn't an offense worthy of exile and Sherlock kept his mind more focused on what he was trying to accomplish. To convince his Alpha that John wasn't a hazard to the health of the pack.

Mycroft had listened intently, and when Sherlock had come to an end he exhaled deeply and Sherlock sat back.

"You mentioned Dr. Watson had done research. Did he say where or how? Wolfsbane is not known to many outsiders."

Sherlock shook his head, "No. But he said we would talk about it. Of course I will ask."

"Do, please." Mycroft then stood abruptly, walking over to a large oak desk in the corner of the room. He spread his hands out over its surface, before opening up a drawer and withdrawing a thick, manila folder. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in curiosity.

"This, Sherlock, is Dr. Watson's file. More specifically I should say, Captain Watson's. It holds all his medical history, exam results and the details of his discharge. I had initially requested his file when he first moved into your flat, but I was… Dissatisfied to say the least. The original file I had received was blacked out and wholly unreadable. This," Mycroft raised the thick folder. "Is what I received yesterday when I had to do some ehg, leg work-to receive the proper file. Captain Watson's account to you of his altercation in Afghanistan was, shall we say, inaccurate."

Sherlock felt a cold stone drop in his stomach and he barely resisted the urge to tear the file from his brother's hands and pour over the details himself.

Mycroft continued. "He was correct in his telling to you that his squad was destroyed in Afghanistan. 11 men and 2 women were slaughtered when they came upon a surprise attack in the mountains. 1 man was never found, presumably dragged off and kidnapped. More than likely killed and devoured in a separate location. Captain Watson was the sole survivor, but it didn't come without a cost. He was also attacked. According to the file in his left shoulder. I believe he told you a bullet? Again, inaccurate."

_John lied?_

Sherlock's breathing slowed as he attempted to wrap his brain around these newfound facts. He kept silent, willing Mycroft to continue.

"He was bitten and dragged a quarter of a kilometer from the initial attack center. It was at this point he reported he killed the wolf that held him. He had managed in the chaos to reach a blade from its sheath that was strapped to his leg and slit the throat. Instead of fleeing, he had run back to his comrades and tried to assess the damage. By that stage the Ferals were gone, as their clear mission was to destroy and disappear. Captain Watson still attempted resuscitation of his companions for nearly two hours before reinforcements had arrived. None in his company could be saved."

Mycroft placed the file gently back in the drawer, letting it shut close with a light click. He watched his brother carefully.

"John was… bitten?" Sherlock asked quietly.

The Alpha nodded. "Yes. But we both know that the Change cannot be-"

"Yes, I know." Sherlock cut him off, waving his hand dismissively. "But it can still have after effects, can it not?"

Mycroft cleared his throat in annoyance to Sherlock's abruptness. "After effects can depend on the person. Most have no more than a physical scar. Others slowly deteriorate over time. And more rarely, some can find themselves with increased stamina, better health and enhanced senses. Tell me dear brother, of which category does Doctor Watson fall?"

The question was facetious and hung in the air awkwardly as Sherlock sat in silence. John had no scent of wolf in his entire body. He was wholly human, but carried in his blood a pathogen that did indeed aid him now. Was John aware of this? Is that why Sherlock was so drawn?

"So, I must ask Sherlock. After he murdered one of our kind in the desert, why you feel he would be good for our pack?" Mycroft lowered his head, peering at Sherlock from behind intense hooded eyes.

"Murdered!? Mycroft you can't be serious. It was self defense for God's sake."

Mycroft made his way to the opposite chair and sat, smiling in a snarl. "Explain."

Sherlock stood, hands clenched at his sides. The entire situation was so blindingly obvious he was struggling to understand how his Alpha couldn't see it. He huffed and felt the wolf stalk in his mind, agitated.

"That squad was John's _pack_, Mycroft. They were in his care and even _after_ they had been attacked, even _after_ he had been severely wounded and even _after_ he had been dragged a quarter kilometer he still went back to care for his them. He tended to them, he comforted them, and he didn't leave them. He was bleeding, and scared and yet he still had the fight in him to go on the offensive, to protect himself so he could care for them. He didn't give up. John Watson _doesn't_ give up. He would protect his pack, even if it killed him." Sherlock was practically shaking with vehemence.

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin. "I agree."

Sherlock blanched, taken aback. "That convinced you?" He asked suspiciously

Mycroft sat back, eyes focused on the details of the armrest, fingers grazing lazily over the fabric. "That report convinced me. He has self-discipline and a strong self of purpose, which was to protect his company. Loyal to a fault."

The relief spread over Sherlock like a fine snow. It was faint and peppered, but the anxiety still clawed in his gut. He was so close to his goal he could taste it in his jaws.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly, calm. "John could be an asset to us. If he's—enhanced, that means he's strong. I saw him in the woods, he was so impressive. He's so clever Mycroft if you only knew—" Sherlock hesitated, eyes refocusing. "He needs us too. He's lost without a pack, without a purpose. He doesn't want to feel alone. He would aid us. There are situations where he could be useful to us. Would you not agree?"

Mycroft puffed and looked to the side. "And what would his usefulness be to you, Sherlock? A mate?"

There was that word again, and Sherlock faltered. "It's complicated. We haven't necessarily had a talk about it. I needed your permission, and you denied it. And I respect that. I do." He added when Mycroft turned quickly and eyed him sharply. "But he would need to belong to the pack first. They would need to accept him before we can move forward."

He had said all the right things, in exactly the right tone. Mycroft looked briefly pleased, and the wolf in him wagged its tail.

"Alright, Sherlock. But this is not solely my decision. I can bring the test to Doctor Watson, but it is up to him to pass it and among the others to accept him. The last time we had such a test it was with Anthea, and it wasn't easy on her."

Sherlock nodded. "I remember." He said quietly.

"Oh, do you? Because from what I remember, you weren't there." Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

That was right, Sherlock hadn't been there. He had a case that Lestrade had requested him on, on the very night of her initiation. It was a serial killer, his favorite, and the trail was hot and he couldn't say no. But he remembered the next day when he arrived at Mycroft's home.

He remembered Anthea being withdrawn, borderline traumatized, and she stank strongly of boar blood, which Sherlock had surmised she had to drink. It had taken a few days, before she had seemed happy again. And now she walked among the pack confident, and they respected her and parted for her in crowds.

"And I am sorry for that," Sherlock stated. "But she passed the test. If she can pass, John can pass." Sherlock brimmed confidence.

Mycroft tilted his head, a gleam in his eye. "Yes, she passed _a_ test. She failed another." He looked distant now.

Sherlock frowned, confused. "What did she fail?"

Mycroft stood and brushed by Sherlock. "It's time for you to head back to Baker Street Sherlock. I will make the arrangements. But it is up to you to explain to John. For all you know, he might not want this. He might not trust _us_."

The conversation was over, and Sherlock knew he was not allowed any more questions.

A weight was lifted off his shoulders, and the wolf bounded down the steps to the waiting cab.

* * *

He tidied up the kitchen as best he could, which entailed shoving unused test tubes, beakers and cutlery into random cabinets and drawers to be out of sight. John would be home soon, it was nearly dusk, and they had rabbits to feast on.

His mind still raced, on how this conversation would go. Part of him wanted to avoid the topic all together, save it for another night and enjoy the pleasure of John's company without stress. But the stronger part of his mind wanted to receive an answer from John as soon as possible. He would say yes, of course.

_He has to say yes._

John arrived home almost 10 hours on the nose from when he departed for work. His jacket was soaked with rain, and Sherlock smiled briefly as John turned his back and shook water from his hair in a similar fashion to a canine. He hung up his jacket and approached the kitchen.

"Haven't started yet have you? I wanted to skin the rabbit."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Oh, did you now? No, haven't started, just sorting out the mise en place."

"Good then." He smiled as he rolled up his sleeves.

* * *

They had made a bad habit of eating on the couch instead of the table. Mycroft would certainly turn his nose up at such an 'uncivilized' dinner. But they were comfortable, relaxed and side by side, and it was good enough for Sherlock. John had helped himself to thirds this time and he was satisfied and relaxed. He idly ran through the channels on the telly as he inquired about Sherlock's day.

Sherlock pondered but for a moment, before answering. "I saw Mycroft."

John's eyes flicked from the television to Sherlock quickly. "Oh?" Slight anxiety in the tone.

"He knows."

John shut the television off and sat up abruptly. "What do you mean he _knows_?"

_And I know what happened to you in Afghanistan_

Sherlock cleared his throat. "He texted me late last night, inquiring about our countryside visit. He has eyes everywhere. He knows you know. _But_—" He started quickly as he could see the sudden worry behind John's eyes. "But, we talked. I took your advice, and I told him about what you told me. What you told me about your experience. The wolfsbane. The whole lot."

John relaxed but a fraction. "And he's… _okay_, with this?"

"John," Sherlock started quietly. "Do you trust me?"

The man threw back his head in exasperation. "You do realize whenever you ask me that, something weird happens."

Sherlock ignored the tone, and kept on. "You told me on the ride to the train station last night, that you trusted me. Do you remember?"

John squinted his eyes, downcast. "I remember being tired…"

"So you don't trust me." Sherlock frowned at the sensation of his pulse lowering, instead of rising. His heart was stilling again, and he hated the reaction.

John sighed and pulled himself up more onto the couch, tucking his legs under him. "Sherlock. I do trust you. I trust _you_. I just—I had a very traumatizing experience a not too long ago. I've had therapy; I've tried to forget. But some things just stick to you and you can't shake them off. I've tried researching up on it, but it doesn't get any easier understanding it."

_This is your chance_

"Researching up on what, exactly?"

John shrugged. "Wolves? I suppose? I heard of a soldier being arrested once, before all of that happened to me. Word was he was insane, had tried attacking a peaceful protest in Bagrami, just East of downtown Kabul. Ranting about wolves—Werewolves. Would you believe it?" John smiled, shaking his head. "Thought he was mad. Hell, at the time of course he was mad. How could anyone believe that? He took out four Afghani men before he was mobbed by civilians. He wasn't killed. He just survived by the skin of his teeth."

"But after I was-," John motioned to his shoulder but caught himself, lowering his hand. Sherlock didn't miss it. John cleared his throat. "-After my squad was attacked I remembered that man. What he said. And I believed him. Of course I did—after what I saw. If anything I wanted someone, anyone, to tell me I wasn't crazy. He was in a cell of course, and it wasn't easy getting into see him, but I managed to get an hour with him."

"He had notes. Just… copious, copious notes. Some of it illegible, but it was all there. 'Pack dynamics', as you call it. Hierarchies, strengths, weakness—wolfsbane for instance, rituals. It was insane, but I read every word."

"Do you still have these notes?" Sherlock asked carefully.

John shook his head. "No. They were confiscated by my command when I stupidly brought it to them in an attempt to get them to understand. Stupid now, but I was desperate. They burned it. All of it. And it made me even more unstable in their minds. They discharged me. They made me leave." The shininess was back in his eyes and he stared down at the floor.

_He was exiled from his pack_ The wolf hushed.

John fell quiet, and Sherlock didn't press further. The man's throat worked hard and Sherlock gave him the moments to let him collect himself.

"John—Would you like to join my pack?"

_Make him say yes _

John didn't move a fraction, eyes still on the floor. Sherlock frowned with concern as John finally brought his head up to Sherlock, staring at him. "W-what?"

"I would like it if you would join my pack. Mycroft is our Alpha and after our conversation today, we both believe you should join."

John blinked. "That's… sudden." He stated numbly.

Was it? He was never one for tact. Maybe this needed a different approach.

Sherlock tilted his head and sighed quietly. "John, my pack is family, as you said once. I know you struggle with yours. I know it's difficult for you to trust. But I feel I know you well enough to know you aren't happy being alone, being without a cause. My pack would accept and trust you. You would be safe. You would protect them and they would protect you. They won't leave you and they would never make you leave. You would belong."

John shivered and wouldn't meet his eyes. Bullseye. Sherlock knew he had hit a nerve. He had meant every word. But he knew he was being manipulative, just as he had been with Mycroft. But he needed to get his way.

"Why," John's voice cracked and he cleared it. "Why would they even want me?" His posture was slumped, submissive.

_Make him say __**yes **_the wolf clawed.

Sherlock raised a hand to John's face, brushing his blonde hair. John didn't pull away and the wolf grinned, but Sherlock's face remained a look of concern.

"Because you're loyal. You're honest and brave. John I told you once, you're so brave. You're genuine and you keep everyone around you grounded. They would love you, John. They would take care of you, and you know what? You would take care of them. You wouldn't be alone anymore."

Sherlock pulled his hand away from John abruptly, and was pleased when John looked disappointed at the lack of touch.

"What would I have to do?" John asked quietly.

"Did those notes mention anything of a joining ritual?"

John shook his head, clearing it. "No, nothing of the sort. I didn't even know that was a – thing."

"Will you say yes?"

John hesitated. "Might I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Can someone, like me, be… turned? Into someone like you?" John wouldn't meet his eyes again.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It's only something one can be born into."

John nodded dimly. "I thought so. I mean, I assumed because—Nothing. Forget it."

"Why do you ask?" He urged.

_Why did you lie to me about being shot?_

"I don't… I just—I want to be me. I'm happy with me. I wouldn't want to be like you, and I'm sorry if that's rude but it's the truth. And I don't think it's a selfish."

Sherlock nodded. "The pack would still accept you, John. Look at Anthea."

John gaped. "What do you _mean_ Anthea? She's human?"

Hm, Sherlock thought it was obvious. "Yes, of course."

"But… But she's with Mycroft. Your pack leader? Wouldn't he be with a,-I don't know, a pack Alpha wolf woman?"

"A female Alpha, I assume you are trying to say." Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "And there are no current Alpha females. We have females, yes. But they weren't suitable. Anthea was chosen. Difficult to explain, and perhaps I am not best to attempt it."

John still looked startled. "Yes, alright then." He settled a bit. "So what of this joining process then?"

"You have to say yes, first." Sherlock stated gently.

"Yes. Alright, yes."

The wolf howled.

"Well be called upon by Mycroft. I will let him know of your decision. I have never been to a joining before. Doesn't happen often, and the last one I had to miss."

"Alright then." John still looked apprehensive, and suddenly very tired. He unfolded his legs and stood, running a hand roughly through his hair. "We should head to bed now. You look like hell, when was the last time you slept through the night?"

Sherlock grimaced and pulled back, waving his hand. "I've gone longer without sleep, John."

"You need to rest, Sherlock." The tone was firm.

_Taking care of us already?_

He defied the impulse to smile and nearly nodded. "Yes, alright. I'll clean up and get some rest."

John nodded, pleased. "Good then. Thank you for dinner. Good night."

"Good night John."

* * *

Three days passed, and not a word from his Alpha. He resisted texting, which wasn't easy. But he knew Mycroft would call upon him and John when the pack was ready for them.

Two of the three days had fallen on a weekend, and John had stayed home the entirety of his days off. He had taken to organizing a bookshelf and a few bins of collectables, and Sherlock picked up another severed head from the mortuary, pulling out his hidden beakers and test tubes once again.

Their touching had increased, but nothing more than light, caste contact. There was an intimacy there that hadn't been before, and he often caught John watching him intently out of his peripheral vision. He pretended not to notice of course.

John had once called him over to watch a news clip online, and Sherlock had hovered over him and the blond had leaned back into his chest. Sherlock's heart had skipped three beats before finding its natural rhythm. Before he left to head to the couch, he had pressed his face against John's neck in a quick nestle. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world, and John hadn't made a cute remark or shifted uncomfortably. It was just, expected.

But there was little detail Sherlock could provide to John about the rite into the pack. Sherlock explained he hadn't ever been to one before, and there weren't any writings about it that either of them could find.

He watched John grimace as he explained about Anthea and the scent of boar blood on her breath, and felt a twinge in his heart, as John looked almost sick at the thought.

"Am I to drink it from some gold goblet as well?" John had asked, shaking his head and smiling grimly. "Bloody hell Sherlock, this will take the cake as the strangest thing ever to happen in my life. And believe me, there have been lots."

"Oh, come on now. You've had like two. Three tops." Sherlock skimmed the latest news on his mobile, smiling gently.

"Yeah, perhaps. Nothing usually ever happened to me. You seem to attract the strange things in life." John said with a sip of his tea.

"Hm." Sherlock supplied quietly in acknowledgement. That indeed he did.

His ears perked up as he heard the familiar light buzz of a text to John's phone and the doctor shoved his hand in his jacket pocket.

"It's from Anthea." John said dismayed, staring at the screen.

Sherlock sat up, alert. "Oh? What does it say?"

"It says for me to come outside." John stood, but Sherlock was quicker to the window. Pulling down a blind he saw the black Cadillac, motor running, waiting outside on the street.

John stood numbly, and Sherlock caught the faint scent of fear. John turned to Sherlock suddenly. "You're coming with me, right?" The fear heightened, and Sherlock approached slowly, out of instinct.

"I can't. I can't come with you." He placed his hand on John's arm, steadying him. "I don't know how I know, but I know. But I'll be there. I'll be right there but right now you need to go with Anthea." He hesitated, and the wolf growled in disapproval at his next words. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

John steadied himself, and shook his head. His eyes met Sherlock's and they were clear again, confident. "No. No I want to. I'm fine. I can do this."

_I know you can._

He ran his hand along John's arm. "No fear John." He whispered. It was meant to come across as a comfort, but he felt his tone was more of a warning.

John nodded nonetheless, understanding.

And as John left, he turned and caught Sherlock's eyes. The wolf nodded silently, words escaping him and nervousness breeching him.

The door clicked shut. And John was gone.

* * *

John sat next to the woman he only knew as Anthea with tense apprehension. His body quivered, with excitement or nervousness, he didn't know.

She was impeccably dressed. Black silk leggings, heels and a long black dress, finely detailed with gold woven throughout the subtle pattern. Around her neck hung a fur, John had to guess mink, along with a matching set of diamond earrings that matched a beaded diamond necklace that cascaded against the fur.

With his trainers, blue jeans, white jumper and black jacket, John felt wholly underdressed.

The car pulled from the sidewalk, and he resisted the urge to look back at Baker Street. He would see it again. The woman's eyes were downcast on her phone, her long polished nails tapping against the glass.

John settled back and cleared his throat.

"Hello John." She started sweetly, pocketing her phone into her purse, eyes coming up to him.

John nodded politely. "Yes, hello again. Remember me now, do you?" He smiled gently.

Her smile didn't falter. "Of course. Would you like a drink?" She motioned to the small wet bar along the side.

"No thank you I'm ehm,-well actually, what have you got that's strong?" John peered over the unlabeled, glass bottles.

She smiled and pulled a snifter from the shelf, pouring a considerate amount of Brandy for him, she passed it over. John took it eagerly, fingers shaking slightly.

Anthea frowned with concern. "Are you sure you're alright? This isn't a kidnapping John. My driver can let you out."

John took a large gulp and choked it down. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and shook his head, coughing. "No no. I'm fine." He smiled to reassure her. "I promise."

She nodded, but didn't look convinced. "How much did Sherlock tell you about this process?" She began, eyes piercing.

John took another gulp and coughed. "Ehm, actually not a lot. It's a rite, I understand that. Something about the blood of a boar… I'm not too sure actually."

"Are you fearful?"

John looked up at her suddenly and paused, before shaking his head. "No. I thought I would be. Nervous maybe. But not fearful."

She tilted her head. "Why?"

"Because Sherlock wouldn't put me in a position to be harmed." He said matter of factly. "I understand it's a joining, a test. It's not meant to be easy I'm sure." He paused. "Can you tell me about it?"

"My answers are limited John. But I can do what I can to help ease your nervousness."

"Does it hurt?" He asked quickly.

Her eyes looked away from him, out the window. "It didn't for me." She said distantly.

John nodded. "Okay. Good." He licked his bottom lip. "Is it a lot of blood I have to drink?"

"I'm not allowed to speak to that." She said quietly, eyes again not meeting his.

"Alright then." That was obviously a yes.

John peered out the window, noticing the change in the clouds as they darkened.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"To the forest."

John's eyes widened. "Forest? What, around here?"

"There are forests you can find if one knows where to look." She sounded so damn Zen-like, John resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yes, okay. A forest. Makes sense I suppose. Who will be there?"

"Everyone who counts."

"And Sherlock will be there?"

She gave him a knowing smile. "Yes, I believe he counts."

John nodded and fell quiet again. He hesitated on his next question. "Do you love Mycroft?"

Her eyes snapped to him and John felt himself flinch. "Excuse me? What kind of question is that?" Her voice was sharp.

John gaped, startled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I just wanted to know if you were happy. Happy with the choice you made."

Her eyes softened, giving a glance of an apology to her out burst. "Yes. Yes I do, for what that matters. I am happy with my choice."

"Ok. Good." John emptied the Brandy and coughed again. He fiddled with the glass in his hand.

Anthea shifted, her fingers nervously toying with the fine jewelry around her neck. She stared out the window. "Mycroft doesn't love me." She said, and her eyes fell to the floor.

John stayed silent, watching her carefully as she continued. "He had to—be with me. I was chosen. My family lineage… Let's just say it was conducive to what the pack needed."

John nodded, understanding. "An Alpha female?"

"An heir." She paused, looking out the window again. "He can't be with who he really wants, because of his responsibilities." She stopped suddenly, as if she'd said too much. Her eyes were misty.

"I won't say anything." John said softly, and the temptation to pat her hand as a comfort was there, but he decided against it.

She sniffed, and raised a gloved hand to her nose. "Thank you."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. He fiddled with his phone inside his jacket pocket almost as a talisman. It made him feel as though Sherlock were with him, holding his hand.

The car turned suddenly, and the once smooth ride turned slightly bumpy as they came upon a dirt stretch. He felt his anxiety rise slightly but he swallowed it back.

The car came to an abrupt stop, and dusk was over taking the trees. John had lost track of their location, and the area felt unfamiliar. He looked at Anthea expectantly.

She opened her purse with a snap, and withdrew a blade, six inches long, slightly curved with serrated edges. The hilt was beautifully detailed, with a scripture John didn't recognize along the edges. She handed it to him and he balked.

"What am I to do with that?" He asked, alarmed.

She didn't waver. "This is for you to take. You'll know when to use it. And you'll know when not to use it." Her voice was calm, detached.

He swallowed, and reached; gripping it in his left dominate hand. She pulled out its sheath and handed it over. With his right hand, he sheathed it into place with a click.

"Am I going to have to fight?" He felt the anxiety claw.

She smiled, but ignored the question. "This is where we depart, John. Walk now." She pulled away from him.

"What? Where?" John looked out amongst the trees. "Anthea, where do I go?"

She motioned with her chin. "Walk."

John took a moment to collect himself. He gave her a parting look, and opened the car door and stepped out.

* * *

The car had pulled away suddenly, and John was alone in the woods. He gripped the sheathed knife as a comfort and shuddered as a swift, chilling breeze whipped through the branches. It was cloudy, not a star in sight as the sun cleared under the horizon.

He pulled his jacket closed, zipping up sharply. He pulled out his phone, checking. No signal. Of course not. He tucked it back inside and shivered again.

There was no direct path, nothing obvious anyhow. He knelt on the ground and looked carefully, and came upon a clearing of broken twigs and stomped leaves. Someone had trailed this path before. It wasn't transparent, but it was a start. He lifted his head as confident as he could manage and walked.

* * *

He had been at it for about 20 minutes before the anxiety began to claw at him again. Doubt crept into his mind. Was he even going the right way? Was this the test? Did he have to find something? Someone? Find Sherlock? What all this about? Christ, was he failing before it had even begun?

And then he caught it, the barest sliver of unknown movement just outside his right peripheral. He spun and gripped the knife, resisting the urge to call out, he focused. It came again, swift, just outside his left eyesight and he ducked in the darkness, stilling his breathing. His heart pounded and he felt the sweat on his brow, but he kept his breathing steady and low.

The barest of moonlights crept through the clouds, giving enough shape to the forest John could recognize enough of it to not stumble around blindly. He waited, eyes focused ahead but he was prepared for the sudden movement to his side, he shifted and caught it. The sleek bit of fur of a large, gray wolf. It was gone like an apparition, and John's hearing caught the faintest sound of two quick huffs against his neck before he wheeled behind him.

Nothing there.

_No fear John._

And it clicked inside him. No fear. They were testing him, scenting him for fear. Sherlock had whispered it, a soft guidence. Sherlock was out there amongst them, watching him. This was a whole pack out there, watching his every move. He swallowed, and stood.

He didn't know where to go, but that wasn't the point. He didn't need to find them.

_They_ were following _him_.

He gripped the knife in his hand, sweaty from the previous anxiety. No anxiety now.

No fear.

He steadied himself, eyes forward and launched himself into the forest.

* * *

This was a different wood, than the one with Sherlock. But the feeling was the same. The same stubborn determination he felt then, the resolve to prove himself.

He heard them now. Huffing, and shuffling in the darkness beside him. He wondered idly if Sherlock was there beside him, but he kept his eyes forward. He pushed himself and ran up against the side of a fallen tree, he pivoted suddenly and pushed off to the right, and a light brown wolf was beside him, eyes wide in surprise.

_I got you_ He wanted to say, but he smiled and ducked behind a large branch, and the wolf was gone like a ghost.

He was sweaty, and mud caked his trainers and jeans but he didn't care. The cold air burned his lungs with every intake he took, stretching his chest out.

He came upon a clearing, so vast and open he nearly stumbled in surprise, catching himself he slowed. He spun a 360 quickly, eyes searching, and when he came full circle, the gray wolf was before him a meter away.

What struck him first was the gold of its eyes, then its very size. Not sleek, like Sherlock. Large, imposing. Spiked fur, outsized paws and it grinned, _grinned_ …baring teeth that came down past its lips.

His hand clutched at the knife and with a push of his thumb, clicked the sheath but didn't let it fall as the wolf bared more deeply, lips pulling back in a sneer, brow furrowing it let lose a savage snarl and its jaws snapped twice.

_Mycroft_

He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. And as he stood before the Alpha he felt the others file in around him at the side of his eye, but he dare not take his away from the Elder Holmes.

And then coming up behind Mycroft, a glossy, back form. And tension he didn't realize he was holding released from his shoulders as he saw Sherlock stand just to the side of his brother.

He smiled, he couldn't help it. Relief flooded him and he suddenly felt exhausted, the adrenaline dying down. But then Sherlock shook his head slightly and his ears pinned back. John felt his smile falter with confusion.

The gray wolf wheeled and struck, catching Sherlock in his jaws, Sherlock cried out. A horrible, half-yowl half-scream that dropped John's gut like a shotgun blast. Mycroft locked his jaws around his brother's neck and whipped violently and Sherlock tumbled in the air, crashing into the grass a few meters away he rolled four times, coming to a jumbled heap. He didn't move.

_He didn't move._

"Sherlock!" John cried out, his knees locking in place in a dull horror.

Mycroft snapped his jaws twice for added effect, almost in a laugh, and John felt the nervousness of the wolves around him. Mycroft took a step toward Sherlock.

John's body instinctively did the work his brain has seized up on. In a swift movement the blade was unsheathed, its casing falling silently into the long grass. He bolted to Sherlock and put himself squarely between the gray and black.

He was shaking with rage. His shoulders, legs, back—all jittery with ire he hadn't ever felt before. And as he raised the blade to the gray wolf, his eyes fell to his hand.

His hand didn't shake.

Mycroft paused, eyeing him carefully. He raised his head, and howled.

It was so piercing; John felt it into his very bones. He shivered and flinched as the others in the pack raised their heads and howled in harmony. It lasted but a moment, and Mycroft ceased. He lowered his head to John and huffed a satisfied noise.

And behind him, he felt Sherlock stir. John turned and watched Sherlock lift himself easily off the ground and give himself a shake. John dropped the knife and went to him, knees buckling he fell and Sherlock caught him with his body.

John's hands raced against the black fur, along his ruff and side. Pulling his hand back, he saw and felt no blood. He pulled back, confused and Sherlock huffed against him.

"You're alright. He didn't hurt you?" John whispered, and Sherlock shook his head.

Another test? _A trick?_

John pulled his fist back, and punched Sherlock's side as hard as he could.

"You fucking asshole!" He cried out, and he felt the tears fall, all of his relief in them. Sherlock rested his head against John's neck as the man clung to him. He heard Sherlock whine in a faint apology.

A wash of Déjà vu fell over them both. John collected himself and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Sherlock used himself as a brace to help John stand.

As he stood he suddenly felt naked, as two dozen wolves of various sizes, textures, shapes and colors watched them intently. He wiped his face quickly again and cleared his throat self-consciously.

He felt a press up against his side as Sherlock motioned for him to follow.

* * *

The other wolves faded back into the forest, and John numbly but trustingly followed the wolf in front of him. He shivered against the cold, the sweat cooling against his skin. His breaths came in ragged puffs in the air and Sherlock rubbed against him, concerned,

"I'm alright." John mumbled quietly. "Are we done?"

Sherlock continued at his pace, eyes forward, but his ears pinned back, betraying him.

"You don't even know do you?" John's voice was tired. The wolf kept walking.

He carefully played with the blade in his hand, admiring its sharpness. He wondered idly if he got to keep it, although he suspected not.

"No, you don't get to keep that, Doctor Watson."

John stumbled over his feet, and fell to his knees in the dirt, shock over taking his system. Sherlock was against him instantly and John stood up quickly, hand on Sherlock's back.

Mycroft and Anthea stood off to the side. He was polished, well-dressed. Cufflinks and shined shoes and John stood half drenched in sweat, mud and God knew what else.

Mycroft stretched his neck, smiling, he nodded toward the knife in John's hands. "That there, my dear boy, is a very valuable family artifact. It should be an honor to look upon it, much less wield it. And might I add, you wield it very well."

John nodded, unsure. "Yeah, alright. Thanks for the honor." He tried to sound sincere, but he knew he failed. He was still bitter from the earlier thrashing he gave Sherlock, fake or not.

"Are you ready for your test?"

John balked, nearly throwing down the knife in frustration, valuable artifact be damned. "You can't be serious. What the hell was all that back there?"

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly. "The pack's test. You passed, by the way. You did very well. This one is my own test. And it's very special, John."

John sighed and nodded. "Alright then."

Mycroft eyes turned to Sherlock, who pulled back, surprised. "Sherlock, dear brother. How are you doing? Holding up well?"

Sherlock huffed, the only response Mycroft was going to get.

"Hm very well. Sherlock, you're involved in this too. You need to get a kill, for your… Ehm, for Doctor Watson here. Can you do that, please?"

Sherlock looked up at John, and the blond could sense the nervousness behind the normally calm gray eyes. Sherlock didn't know what this was about either.

"You have 30 minutes, Sherlock. Get a kill and bring it back. Easy enough for you, isn't it?" Mycroft smiled, but there was no warmth there.

Sherlock hesitated against John, and the blonde man put a hand on his head in reassurance. "Go on then." He whispered. "We're nearly done."

Sherlock started at a trot into the forest, but Mycroft's voice penetrated. "Sherlock! On second thought, I have something more specific in mind. Go on and catch a stag for us. Hm?"

Sherlock spun around, surprised, tail high and alert. His paws shuffled anxiously against the dirt and he huffed out an angry snort. Mycroft smiled. "Go on then."

Sherlock caught John's glance. John nodded in reassurance.

"29 minutes Sherlock!" Mycroft called, and in a blur, Sherlock was gone.

* * *

John fought the urge to sit down, he was so very exhausted, and it wasn't easy. He squinted in the dark at his watch, barely catching numbers on the dial in the moonlight before he gave up and prayed Sherlock was alright, and within the time limit Mycroft had given him.

Mycroft gave hushed words to Anthea, who stood with her large fur jacket wrapped around her. She laughed softly against Mycroft, and John shivered against the cold, feeling oddly put out.

And then he heard it, a crash of bush and twig and he jumped. Mycroft turned, and bared his teeth in a smile.

Sherlock had done it, and John felt a well of pride in his chest as the black wolf dragged a buck along the side of him, his head at an odd angle. Six points, and over 45 kilograms. Sherlock stumbled once, nearly falling on top of it, before steadying himself and continuing to drag.

He pulled it before Mycroft and released his jaws. Blood pooled from the buck's neck, and John could smell it, metallic in the air. Sherlock panted heavily and took several paces back, next to John.

"Very well done Sherlock. And see? You didn't get killed." Sherlock growled softly from behind grated teeth, and John felt like he was missing a piece of information of this conversation.

The Alpha brushed his sleeve, and straightened his jacket. "Now, Doctor Watson. Step forward please. Toward the kill."

John didn't hesitate, he was almost to the end but his nerves were still on edge. He didn't like where this was going.

"I need you to take that blade in your hand, an open this animal's chest. Can you do that?"

John frowned, his fingers flexing around the knife. He'd opened a hundred chest cavities before. Granted, with sharper utensils and more sterile environments, but it didn't faze him in the least. He nodded, confident. "Yes of course."

Mycroft smiled and gestured to the beast.

John knelt before it. Grabbing a leg he twisted and used leverage to get it to turn on it's back, exposing its chest. He licked his lips and held the knife in both hands he plunged the knife inside with a solid thrust. He heard the faint snap of bone and came upon resistance. He huffed, feeling sweat forming as he worked through its chest laterally.

The flesh split open, fur pulling back. Blood spilled heavily and soaked through his jeans but he kept cutting, sawing surely through. He got to its belly and stopped, setting the knife down. He used his arms to pull open the torso, a bit of intestine spilling from its belly.

He grimaced slightly. He looked at Mycroft and waited. He _really_ didn't like where this was going.

"Eat the heart, Doctor Watson."

Yeah. Really didn't like where that went.

He looked behind him at Sherlock, whose eyes were wide. He looked tragic, and John took in how worn he looked. He couldn't have imagined the fight with the buck was a simple one. Sherlock could have been killed bringing this to John. He had to finish this.

He looked up at Mycroft again and nodded, grabbing the knife from the ground. "Alright."

_"This is for you to take. You'll know when to use it. And you'll know when not to use it."_

And John felt his fingers hesitate against the blade, Anthea's words echoing in his mind. Mycroft had always been specific, on when to use the knife. He had told John to use it to open up the buck, but in this instruction, it was simple. _Eat the heart._

John dropped the blade and using his hands and whatever strength he had left, he wrenched the chest cavity open, and viewed the heart closely. It was about the size and consistency of a human heart, and John didn't know if this made it easier or harder. He dipped his head and struck at it.

It was tough, quite literally. And he heard Sherlock whine nervously behind him.

_Probably wondering what the hell I'm doing._ John thought dimly.

He bit down on the edge, clenched his teeth, and pulled, feeling it tear apart with a meaty slap. Blood pooled and he gagged, but kept his mouth shut. He brought his hand to his mouth, cupping it over his lips he felt more blood slip past. He chewed, and gagged again, shuddering. He kept his eyes on the heart, he couldn't bring himself to look at Mycroft or Anthea. He heard Sherlock nervously pace behind him.

He chewed five more times, then swallowed. He'd done it. He let lose a gasp, and wiped his mouth. He felt the smear of blood, still warm, against the back of his hand. He continued to look at the once beating heart, when he heard a swift intake of breath ahead of him. Looking up, Anthea's hand was brought to her face, her expression horrified.

He frowned, had he done something wrong? He felt the deer blood seep down his neck, staining his shirt, and he realized how crazed he looked in this moment. He looked at his hands, flesh and blood caked over them.

Mycroft took a step forward, a burning intensity in his gold flecked eyes John hadn't seen before. He motioned for John to rise and John did, albeit unsteady. The nervous shake of his leg was back.

"Doctor Watson...Welcome." Mycroft smiled and John smiled faintly, the sweet feeling of relief washing over him.

But Mycroft's face twisted, and before John could register he felt fangs on his neck, and a woman scream. The breath was pulled out of his body as his arms wrapped around the wolf holding him down, Mycroft, suddenly deformed, teeth in John's neck, growling a snarl that made his blood cold.

He felt a shove, and he dropped to the ground and with swirling eyes he saw Sherlock attack his Alpha, snarling like a mad thing, hovering over John.

The blonde man put a hand to his neck, and felt his blood run through his fingers like a river. He smiled gravely and exhaustion overtook him. His world went black.

_Damn_.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Harm

Sherlock had first heard the coined phrase "seeing red" when he was at university. He was 19, engrossed in a psychology textbook when a fight had broken out inside the library. He watched transfixed as two young men fought, frantic and uncoordinated, but with passion nonetheless, and he couldn't tear his eyes away.

Hearing the gossip and hushed whispers throughout the hall, he had learned that one of the men had slept with the others girlfriend of two years, later learning it was against her will. Noticing the fresh scent of a female's sweat and perfume on the taller, stronger man's skin, he could deduce which one had done the deed.

"Carl's gone mental, seeing red he is. They'll both be expelled for this, I'm sure of it." One girl had whispered to her friend, and in a dramatic effect, the two men tumbled into a bookcase, spilling books and eliciting shrieks from the librarian.

And Sherlock was left abnormally confused, as the young man who he had initially pegged as the soon to be winner of the battle, the one who had raped the other's girlfriend, had been soundly defeated by the shorter, thinner and obviously less coordinated man. The shorter man had gone full offensive. He showered blows, landed a swift kick to the gut and in short time, had pinned the other with a sharp elbow to the neck. He leaned and whispered so low; only Sherlock's alert hearing could make it out.

"You hurt my girl…I'll slit your throat." It wasn't a threat, it was a promise. And directly after said promise security tackled and pulled them apart and the library staff had shoo'd them all away from the area.

The weaker of the two, had won. The stronger had been defeated by the weaker. It didn't follow physical or logical reasoning, and Sherlock had been bothered for days. What other factor was he missing?

But it was now, in this moment in the forest, a forest that by all accounts shouldn't exist, that the logic clicked into place.

_He had destroyed the one who hurt his mate._

His Alpha, Mycroft Holmes, had his jaws locked around John Watson's throat, spilling crimson blood and snarling. A woman screamed and the Alpha's eyes dead bolted on Sherlock's. He took it as a challenge.

And Sherlock Holmes saw red.

He didn't remember charging Mycroft. Just that he was suddenly in the air and he connected with such a force his Alpha huffed in surprise, jaws releasing. John fell to the ground gasping, Sherlock standing above him, snarling with such a rabid ferocity he would have been frightened by his own behavior, if he weren't so blinded by rage.

Mycroft reared, all golden eyes and shredded clothing, and roared a warning so loud; wolves for kilometers over would be tucking tails between their legs. Sherlock locked his position over John, whose blood loss was so severe he had already passed out. John's blood scent filled his nostrils, sharp and rancid, and fury filled him. He raked a single claw against the ground, digging deep into the earth, and tossed his head twice, bull-like, and snarled like a ravening beast.

Mycroft held his position, but an ear betrayed him. Sherlock watched the left, tufted ear pin back briefly in a quick gesture of uncertainty. Sherlock struck.

He aimed low, not directly at the neck but the sensitive point above it, where Mycroft's head met his jaw line. He heard another scream, Anthea, and he had a moment of clarifying panic at his actions before the wolf inside overwhelmed him.

Mycroft gave a yowl of surprise, back peddling, and Sherlock locked his jaws while his Alpha thrashed. He felt blood on his chops, fresh and putrid, and he squeezed tighter as he realized he had made purchase into the flesh. His brother made a low moan.

Rearing, Mycroft attempted to claw Sherlock off him. Sherlock braced himself for the impact of sharp claws along his side, and he held on tighter. His brother then lifted and slammed down, shattering the black wolf to the dirt twice in an attempt to have Sherlock release, but it only enraged the wolf further, and he held on.

"Stop it! Stop it—Oh my God!" The woman cried, and Sherlock's eyes caught her small frame on the ground, a hand pinned to John's neck, weakly trying to impede the bleeding.

_John._

Sherlock released, his left front leg giving out he stumbled and collapsed, before adrenaline filled and he rose again quickly, shaking. Mycroft lowered his head; his ashen fur caked with blood, an open tear running along his neck, blood cascading. His eyes caught Sherlock's, and the black wolf's chest heaved as he saw an emotion in those golden eyes he couldn't recognize. They then rolled back, and the Alpha collapsed, mouth gasping in uneven breaths.

He turned to Anthea. White gloves stained with John's blood, now covered her mouth in terror, and their eyes met.

_You get yours. I'll get mine._

She cried out to Mycroft. Heels catching in the dirt, she staggered to the fallen wolf, Mycroft's chest still lurching.

Sherlock had a singular focus: Get John.

With a tenderness he didn't know he possessed in this form, he gently bit down on the collar of John's jacket, and pulled backwards. He swiftly but carefully dragged John until they came upon the road and the view of his fallen brother and his companion faded from view.

_What have you done? _The wolf whispered.

* * *

Sherlock came upon the empty vehicle he and Mycroft had arrived in, and relief swamped him with delirious energy.

The sky rumbled with nervous vigor. The air becoming thicker as pressure increased, black clouds filling in the gaps of the woods.

He _shifted _back, and it hurt as his heart rate wasn't steady, but the pain barely registered against his adrenaline. Deer and Alpha blood coating his throat and chest, drying on his naked form. He assessed John quickly; with trembling fingers felt for a pulse on John's wrist. It was there, weak and fragile but it was there.

John's head lolled, eyes flickering open. He was horrifyingly pale, his white jumper coated with blood and soil, his eyes floating in their sockets. They were fatigued, glossy and barely held recognition, but they focused on Sherlock. Out of instinct he raised a hand to John's pallid face, his heart racing.

"Sh'lock…" John whispered, and blood pooled from his mouth. Sherlock pressed a steady hand to John's neck, applying pressure.

"John, your hand, give me your hand." He reached quickly; grasping the blood-coated arm he placed John's own hand on his neck, pressing down. "I need to find the keys. Apply the pressure. You can do this. You've done it before."

John nodded once, weakly, and his fingers flexed against his neck, holding his hand there.

"Sh'lock…I…I'm..." Came the ragged whisper again, and Sherlock hushed him gently.

"Don't talk. Please your neck… Please don't try to talk. Just keep applying. I'll be right back."

With frightened energy Sherlock raced to the passenger door, flinging it open with a crack so fierce he heard the hinge bend. He fought through the pile of clothing he had stored here, flinging them, his ears set on finding the familiar jangle of keys he knew Mycroft had hidden.

He pulled his trousers on, and threw on his shirt not bothering to button up, when he heard the familiar clink of keys falling to the floorboard. He flew at them and huffed the air frantically.

He was fraught with panic at the thought of the pack coming at him, retaliation for his attack on Mycroft. Coming to tear him and John apart. But he heard nothing, not a sound or a scent. Maybe it was the complete lack of sound that should have alerted him. No frogs, or crickets, not even a buzzing insect. But he paid no attention now, his focus back entirely on John.

He slammed the car door and wheeled around the back of the car and his knees hit the dirt, next to John, gathering the man up in his arms.

Wrapping an arm around John he lifted the blonde man, bracing himself up on his knee, when he knew.

He knew.

He watched John's limp hand fall away from his neck. Eyes lifeless. Shiny and cold like marble slate.

He couldn't taste John's pulse in the air anymore. Didn't scent the flowing blood.

John Watson was dead.

The black clouds rumbled.

And he knew.

The bleeding had stopped, but it was the result of a heart that wasn't beating, not from a valiant, clever effort on Sherlock's part. He held John, rigid in position. No pulse, no heart beat, no breath.

Limp and wilted, like a freshly killed rabbit.

Sherlock cradled the blonde man on the dirt road, numb, body instinctively shielding him from the rain that had started to fall. Holding him in such a way, it was as if he was attempting to prevent John's very soul from leaving his body.

And the rain fell, heavy now, washing away the blood and gore, soaking into the grass and dirt.

But even as the rain fell, Sherlock knew.

His rain was gone.

* * *

John Watson wasn't a stranger to night terrors. Even as a little boy, he'd had multiple reoccurring ones, and they were often suffocating in how realistic they were.

His sister Harry had openly mocked him for them at the breakfast table, oftentimes elaborately reenacting John's cries in his sleep or his thrashing in bed, giggling as she did so. John's cheeks burned as their mother not so sternly warned Harriet to stop teasing her little brother. She never did stop.

In every night terror he ever had, it always ended the same. Or very nearly the same. The need or impulse to run, toward something or from something, often times he couldn't tell the difference.

He would start to run, but his legs would lock, body suddenly heavy, and as he ran his body would slow, as if stuck in tar, until he lost sight of what he was chasing, or was caught by what he was running from. And he would awaken with a jolt.

So when he awoke now, in very much a dreamlike state, he waited for the familiar sensation of unease, or horror, or uncertainty.

But none came.

He sat up pensively, taking in his surroundings.

It was a forest, and he dimly thought if this would start to be a recurring theme in his life, before he realized this was unlike any forest he had ever seen.

Sunlight spilled in, oddly reflecting off bark and weeds as if they were made from mirrors, shining back into his eyes he squinted reflexively. He lifted his hand, stained with grass and dew and breathed in, the freshest most open, calming fragrance he'd ever smelled in his life.

Dust and pollen particles danced in the beams of lights, and as he stood, he brushed his jeans free of loose dirt; he realized there was no sense of dread, or of impending disaster.

He'd never had a dream like this before. And morbid realization struck him.

_I'm dead._

He lifted a quick hand to his neck, and the sensory memory was there. Fangs. Mycroft. Blood. Oh God, so much blood. And Sherlock.

_Sherlock_.

He looked at his hands, scrubbed clean but for the dew. Jumper freshly white, trainers and laces bleached and sterile.

But everything felt faded, muddled. He looked around the forest, and the light brightened, taking away the sharpness of everything around him.

He blinked against the light, raising a hand against it. A form took place, backlit, and John struggled to make make sense of it.

He stepped a few paces away, oddly delighted that his feet weren't impeded by the movement. No tar held him in this place. _No fear John._ He watched the silhouette take form, and John lowered his hand, confused.

The form was familiar. Wolf. Sherlock? No… not Sherlock.

And then John knew.

He knew it was him.

The silhouette lifted its head, and howled.

* * *

It was like being dumped into a vat of scalding cold water, so cold it could burn and scar. The bitter, sharp intake of breath tore through John's chest and he convulsed once, hand instinctively reaching out to grab and steady himself. His hand hit dirt and he clawed at it, gasping again and the urge to vomit almost overtook him, as if his very lungs squeezed and surged against his throat.

He attempted to stand but his world spun and he lost his balance, finding himself falling to the ground, he rolled to his back, breathing that glorious air. He felt soaked, he was drowning and he inhaled again, water hitting his face. Rain? Yes, rain. In the desert? John's head swirled.

He sat up, dazed, body reacting to his training to be alert, to find cover. That horrible, buzzing sound was echoing in his ear. Tinnitus from an IED? Explosion? Where were the wounded? He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and pain ripped through his neckline and collarbone.

"John…"

It was but a breath of air, and he focused his eyes on the source. John. His name. Not Captain. Not Watson. Not Medic. Just John.

And he stilled. He wasn't in the desert. He wasn't in a war. He remembered now, a forest. But this forest was different. Wasn't he just in a forest? A better one? Brighter? It was fleeting, a wispy memory that he couldn't grasp and it was gone, faded back into the woods of his mind.

He sat up, body heavy, and felt a presence suddenly next to him. Warmth and comfort. He leaned into it, and fatigue engulfed him.

"John… John…" Disbelieving tone, bewildered and John looked up. Sherlock. Yes, he remembered now. The ritual, the pack, Mycroft. He remembered. Sherlock held him, eyes wide, rain circling those dark curls and dripping heavy drops against John's skin.

"I want to go home." He said softly against Sherlock, and he felt the man pause, before nodding.

* * *

He had lifted John carefully, as if the man was made out of spun glass, and settled him into the passenger seat. His eyes were half lidded, clearly exhausted, but his breathing had evened out and although his neck wounds were open and fresh, the bleeding had stopped entirely. He even seemed to be getting his color back, despite the chilled rain.

And as he jogged to the driver's seat, he caught it. A faded whiff in the air that belted through the brush of trees. It was dull, but it rose his hackles. A Feral nearby, almost identical to the one in the pub. It was nearly undetectable, probably a good ways out, but it shook Sherlock deeply. He'd never felt more vulnerable. He ducked into the seat and slammed the door, locking it.

John was impossible. And as Sherlock turned on the ignition and started on the road, his mind worked like an F1 Formula racer.

John had died. He had been a corpse, and for several minutes. And in those tortuous minutes, Sherlock 's mind grieved, howled, raged and despaired.

The darker parts of his mind worked as well, wheeling out the grim, savage things he would unleash against Mycroft and Anthea. Against all of them. He should have ended Mycroft then and there. Should have delivered the killing blow. He should have turned and clutched that weak, female human in his jaws and crushed her in front of a crippled Mycroft. Tossed her down and dug claws into her belly before ripping Mycroft apart, bit by bit.

But then the unbelievable. A gasp, a convulsion and John sputtered back into the world, twisting out of Sherlock's shocked hold he landed on the ground, shivering and gasping like a wounded, frightened animal.

It was impossible. It was completely, thoroughly, impossible.

And yet there John was.

He held John's limp hand as he drove, two fingers pressed to the sensitive curve of his wrist, feeling his pulse to ensure that yes, it was still there. And John's finger's curled around his, faint, and Sherlock drove, eyes locked ahead, frozen with nervous elation.

* * *

He pulled up a block away and around the corner from Baker Street. John had fallen asleep, mouth partly open and long, steady breaths entering and exiting his body. Sherlock watched, transfixed, before finding the ability to release John's hand.

He buttoned up his shirt properly and smoothed down his damp hair. He contemplated scaling a few buildings and scoping out their flat. He anticipated a whole pack would await them. Maybe police, or the entire Scotland Yard.

"Attempted Murder". He could see it now on his warrant.

He cracked open his car door, scenting the cool air outside. The rain hadn't followed them yet, but the clouds were heavy. He stilled and listened, and he caught the Feral scent again, so very faint he was beginning to suspect it was his paranoia creating it, as he heard nothing on the streets. It was gone again, but Sherlock couldn't relax an inch. One can never be too careful.

He had to tend to John, see to the wound to ensure no infection. The wounds were punctured, and one almost certainly might require stitches as it dragged downward, so very close to his carotid artery it made Sherlock sick

He put a hand on John's leg and the man awoke with a start.

"John, we're home." He said quietly, eyes quickly assessing every flicker from John, cataloging his every move.

The blonde nodded, before stopping and wincing against the pain. He lifted a hand to his neck instinctively but Sherlock stopped him quickly. "Don't touch it." He whispered gently, holding John's hand away from the wound.

John licked his bottom lip nervously and his hand tightened around Sherlock's, and they held the moment in heavy silence. Sherlock finally shifted, and made a point to move slowly, as he raised a hand against John's face, no longer pallid, and brushed his finger's against his temple and down to his jaw line.

"You're alright." To John it would come as a reassurance, but to Sherlock it was to himself, confirmation and skepticism wrought in the tone. John was here, alive, breathing, blinking, moving …It overwhelmed him.

He leaned in, pulling John's arm toward the console in the center of the vehicle, they met in the middle. He pressed his lips against John, searching and imploring. It had been so long since he'd done this properly, his brain locked out with doubt; he decided to go by instinct.

He closed his eyes and gently, oh so gently, ran his fingers against the skin of John's cheek. John's lips were cracked, skin flushed and damp from the rain, pores still drenched in the scent of blood. To Sherlock's morbid mind, it was simply devine. It was fresh, earthbound and so completely John, he implored more urgently and John obeyed against him. It was still caste and refreshingly innocent amid the carnage of the night. It was calm and intimate and he pulled away looking into John's eyes, searching.

And John gave the briefest of sheepish, exhausted smiles. It was the most brilliant smile Sherlock had ever seen.

The moment did pass though, and they pulled away from each other. Sherlock sighed heavily, knowing the toughest part came next. "I know you're tired." He started quietly. "But we can't go home quite yet. I need to survey it. We might need to go elsewhere."

John didn't nod, but stared distantly into the streetlights. "What happened?" He whispered, turning to Sherlock. He reached a slightly trembling hand to Sherlock's shirt, now soaked with blood that absorbed from his skin.

Sherlock frowned, eyes boring into John. "What do you remember?"

John frowned and winced again, licking dried lips. "I remember…" And his voice crackled. "The woods, the running. The deer and I…" And John made an awkward motion, an invisible knife in his hand. Sherlock nodded in encouragement.

"And then…" And John's eyes searched frantically, attempting to access that part of his memory. "Mycroft… and then…then you..." John's eyes widened and he flinched, and Sherlock caught the scent of panic in the air. He put a hand on John's knee, but the man recoiled from his touch and Sherlock pulled away, alarmed.

"John, I was protecting you. I didn't attack you, it was Mycroft… please…" He started quickly, trying to quell John's sudden panic.

John's body shook, and Sherlock could sense the adrenaline filling him. Fight or flight was kicking in. His hands fumbled for the door handle. "I need to go home." He said suddenly and Sherlock reached and held him back.

"Listen to me! They could be out there. I attacked Mycroft and the pack will want blood. I need to check to see if it's safe. If need be we can collect some items and take refuge in a hotel. I have fake identification cards…. I have it planned out just please trust me John. For God's sake there might be a Feral out there tracking us, it isn't safe right now." He gripped his shoulder tightly for emphasis.

"Get OFF me!" John shouted with a hoarse, violent voice, shoving Sherlock back. Sherlock released, shocked at the sudden strength.

John clutched at the side of his head and gave a low moan. "Oh God… Please stop… Please…Stop…"

Sherlock felt a cold dread fill the pit of his stomach. All he scented was pure adrenaline and fear from John, along with a new scent, something familiar but just beyond his grasp. But it was dark and instinctual and it filled him with the same terror he felt in the woods.

"Stop what John? Talk to me, stop _what_?" He pleaded, begging for an understanding.

He felt, rather than saw, the swift movement John made. It landed against him in a hard crack and he saw small, silver stars in his vision, before it landed against him again. He was shoved, moving now, so quickly it was nearly imperceptible and he was suddenly on the ground, car door open. He spilled out into the street, trying to gather his wits. He stood, and John was before him, eyes glistening.

Sherlock's blood ran cold. This wasn't John, this was now something else. Something sinister. Something malevolent. John's lips curled in a snarled half smile, eyes black, pupils blown wide. He looked like a mad thing with his weeping neck wound and blood caked clothes.

The scent was back. And Sherlock knew.

_Feral._ The wolf bared its teeth anxiously.

John flew at him, colliding with such swift energy Sherlock's stunned mind barely gave himself the time to raise his arms to protect himself. He spun but couldn't catch himself, he fell again and felt a hard crack of pavement against his elbow.

John lowered his head, peering from behind dark eyes. "You aren't my Alpha." He ground out furiously low, between bared teeth.

John's knee suddenly connected with Sherlock's face, and the once small, silver stars became large, white ones. As he fell into darkness and John fled into the night, Sherlock had one devastating, singular thought.

_Impossible. Completely, thoroughly, impossible._

And yet there John went.

And from the safety of a roof top, unbeknownst to either, Jim Moriarty grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Notes: There will not be non-con in this story, and I promise a satisfying ending. The final parts will be titled "Home" so you can extrapolate from there. You just have to endure angsty, twisty bits first because well, I'm kinda evil...

Enjoy...?

* * *

** _A Cherokee Legend-Two Wolves_ **

_An elderly Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. "A fight is going on inside me," he said to the boy._

_"It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is **evil** - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego." He continued, "The other is **good** - he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you - and inside every other person, too."_

_The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"_

_The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."_

* * *

Part Four: Harm Part Deux

Sherlock Holmes sat, dripping wet and horribly exhausted, in his favorite over sized armchair in his flat at 221 B. He took a deep drag from a once hidden cigarette, the one he reserved solely for the most difficult of a case. Nicotine patches could only do so much, and the real thing made him terribly alert and focused. He reluctantly admitted it also helped calm his frazzled nerves after the horror that was this night.

He woke not 20 minutes earlier, soaked and chilled from the downpour that had finally caught up to London. His jaw ached and now had an annoying click, where John Watson had butted him with his knee and then fled. Grit and rain soaked into his hair from the pavement, and his elbow thrummed where it had connected with concrete. He had awoken alone, it being well past 1am on a weekday the streets were clear from pedestrians, and no doubt any passing vehicles had assumed him a drunk or a vagrant, and pointedly ignored him all together. _Another hurrah for humanity_, he thought bitterly.

The rain had washed away any hope of a trail, leaving no trace of scent either Feral or John. _Or is it the same now?_ He thought, and his shaking hand brought up the cigarette and he took another long, deep drag, and held in his lungs until they burned. He could feel the tickle of a cough. He suppressed it and exhaled slowly.

For the fifth time since he lit his cigarette he held down the speed dial for John's mobile, and cursed for the fifth time as it went straight to voicemail. Dead or turned off deliberately? It seemed ludicrous he would even attempt to call or text, but he attempted again, sixth time. Voicemail. Frustrated, he chucked his mobile to the opposing arm chair. _John's chair._ He took another drag.

He attempted to focus on the facts.

**1**. John had been accepted into the pack. Good.

**2**. John had (?) Mycroft's test. If he had passed, why was he attacked? If he failed, why had his Alpha said _Welcome. _Then fangs. Attack. Why?

**3**. Female human screaming. John's blood-**No**. Delete that. _Deleted_**. **

**3**. John died. No pulse, no breath. 96 excruciating seconds later, resuscitation. Died of blood loss. Obvious. Alive now, bleeding stemmed? _HOW._

**4.** Feral scent in woods. Same as pub? Close, not identical. Familial? Perhaps. Same pack? Obvious. Save data file for later use. _Do not delete. Significant._

**5. **John's scent change. Familiar. Same as pub- No. _Impossible_.

**6. **John attacked him. Fact. Scent change, posture change. Fact. "You're not my Alpha." Entire meaning? Currently unknown. Significant.

**7**. No awaiting pack members at their flat. His mobile as silent as the grave. Unsettling. Not good.

**8.** Oh yes, nearly killed his brother and Alpha. Decidedly very not good. Temporary shelve memory—focus on John at present time.

The facts flowed. Fast, disjointed and cluttered in his mind. So many facts, but no answers. Not a single one. So damn aggravating.

He rose from the chair, and tossed the butt into a cold, two day old mug of tea at his side. _John's mug._ His legs were blessedly steady as he began to pace.

_Track. _The wolf hummed.

No. Sherlock steeled himself. John had run off, yes. But no trail, no clues. He needed data, and he had none. Any data he could hope to glean would be from Mycroft. _Damn it!_ The reasonable conclusion was that in this state, John's instincts would lead him back here-back home. To his den.

But John was injured, exhausted and clearly—ill. Ill seemed the right term in his mind. Not himself and decidedly not well, that was for damn sure.

Where else would John go, but home?

Logical solution was to wait here, at least for a time. It was dark. John had at least 30 minutes on him. Rain slicked off the windows.

The cold rock in his chest ached. Worry. Stress. Exhaustion. Sentiment.

_Sentiment_. _Christ, how do humans stand it?_

He clicked his jaw, lost in thought.

* * *

John Watson slowly and over the course of several incoherent minutes, came back into himself along side an alley, unceremoniously huddled against several bins of recyclables and garbage. He steadied himself along the brick wall, giving himself some self of grounding as his head swirled to the point of sheer vertigo, and he slumped himself fully to the asphalt, the only way to completely settle himself. But his world continued to spin.

He felt the moment his body decided _ENOUGH _and he sat up on his knees, and vomited straight to the pavement.

Blood.

John bolted back, and quickly wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Copper taste, dark red. His mind raced, internal bleeding? From what? Why? _Shitshitshit._

The doctor was in. He reeled with the sudden reality of his dire situation. Everything was a horrible, jumbled mess in his mind. His body jittered, shoulders tense. His neck throbbed. Shit, his neck. He wanted to check, but he dared not with his now filthy, grit ridden hands.

_Not internal bleeding_, his mind supplied and he searched his memory bank. The heart. The deer heart! His shoulders relaxed a fraction. Blood from the deer, the heart, of course. The heart—pack—Sherlock—SHIT.

He wanted to stand, but didn't trust his own legs. The vomiting helped as the spinning was beginning to subside. Like a drunk briefly alleviated from the alcohol in his system.

He remembered the moment like a movie: his body, his movements but unreal. He struck at Sherlock, once, twice. Sherlock fell, John's mouth moved—words, what did he say? Struck again, he connected, Sherlock fell again. Downed. _Run_. He ran.

John was horrified, shocked still as the memories flooded. Painful, harsh, and unyielding into his brain. He had to call, call for help, for him and for Sherlock. 999. He reached into his pocket, hands now dried with blood, and pulled out his mobile. Dead. He stared at it dumbly.

Every single fiber of his body ached, burned. He attempted to stand, lift himself off the ground, brace himself against the wall. Anything. But his body rebelled against him. He looked around, the only part of his body listening to him were his eyes, taking in surroundings and surveying. He didn't know where he was. Not a clue. Unfamiliar. Just vacant, deserted looking brick buildings and grimy alleyways.

He could feel it with growing horror, the swirlings of a panic attack in the back of his chest. His breath hitched, his mind muddled. So many unknowns, so much burning pain and fear…

"He-Hello?"

John flinched. The voice was small, boy-ish. John's knees ached against the cement as he lifted his head, searching for the voice. _Yes! God please, help!_ But his chest hitched again, catching his voice in his throat. Panic circled and sniffed.

A figure approached, hesitant. John's hands released the grip on his phone, and it clattered to the slick cement, the noise bouncing off the walls. _Please God, let me live. Help me._

"Doctor—Doctor Watson?" Dark eyes widened, and the young man fell into the light of the flickering street lamp.

_Jim. Jim from the clinic, Jim._ John could have cried with sheer relief. Jim's jaw hung open in shock.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell happened to you?" The man jogged toward him but then slowed, remaining a meter away, out of reach.

"Jim—" He breathed. His patient, a Godsend. Thank Christ. "P-please… I need the –hospital. I need to get to a hospital." The very fact someone was here, someone could HELP that he wouldn't DIE here alone in the gutter like some rubbish—He could pass out from the relief alone. Someone would help him. He would be saved.

_run_

Jim was nodding and finally reached John. He placed a hand on John's shoulder. His scarred one. "Yes, of course. I'll take you. Let's go Doctor Watson. Come with me" His voice was bright, careful, no longer alarmed.

John hesitated. He wanted to shake his head, but he dare not twist his neck. "Can't...move. Can't explain. Please call—call someone. C-call." His voice broke. Fire burned his veins. His throat worked hard, wanting to retch again.

Jim's hand squeezed his shoulder. Tight. Tense. "No, don't be silly. I have a car." He motioned with his hand, but John didn't follow his gesture. "Come with me."

_RUN. _

John flinched against his touch and away from the voice now suddenly loud in his head. Jim's dark eyes narrowed briefly. "Come on now Johnny. I'll get you the help you need."

**RUN!** it bellowed, and John heard it like a crack of thunder.

He surged to his feet as if his flank were snapped by a bullwhip. He was out of Jim's shocked grasp, pulling against the hand that held his shoulder and he felt it wrench, but no pain registered against the adrenaline, fear and burning in his muscles and veins. He ran, bloodied trainers slapped against the soaked streets.

"SEB!" Jim called out down the alleyway, his tone annoyed. He did not give chase, but John didn't stop.

He was weak, Christ so weak, only adrenaline keeping him going now. His heart pounded, he could hear drumming in his ears. The instinct to run from Jim was overwhelming his senses. It was his only, singular urge.

He rounded the corner and came upon a chain link fence. He vaulted it without a second thought, slickly clamoring over it with one swift jump and haul.

_Stop! Go back! Run!_

John hesitated, his pace faltered but for a moment before he continued on. Instinct again, yelling at him. He ignored it. Fuck instinct! Like hell he was going ba—

His knees buckled as he felt the tackle, and his mind went staticky, flickering and buzzing and temporarily blinding him. Something heavy, incredibly strong struck him. He was pinned against cold rock and his energy depleted rapidly, fear overtaking the adrenaline and freezing him on the spot.

A man above him, scruff of a beard, dirty blond hair hanging past his ears with eyes like black obsidian. Manic. Smelling of gun oil and wood smoke. His thick wristed hands held him by one arm and the other on his jacket collar. He shook John once violently to get his point across, to let John know of his strength, before pinning him down to the ground. John raised his hands, palms up, submissively. He couldn't meet the man's intense eyes.

The man growled down at him. "Couldn't just get in the car, could you. Piece of shite." His voice was furious, and he spat out of the corner of his mouth, letting his spit hit the wall. John attempted to look at him out of the corner of his vision—He squinted… He thought… Is-is that_?..._It fled from his mind again and he closed his eyes, fatigued, chest heaving.

"Thought you said this one was going to be strong boss." He said gruffy, voice obscenely low. John recoiled at the sound but the hand on his arm held tighter.

Gentle, casual steps clicked on the now cobblestone street he found himself on. John swallowed and his throat burned at the motion. He listened, as the steps got closer, before stopping just above his head. Jim Moriarty knelt down and tenderly brushed John's hair back from his face, fingertips against his slick forehead.

John recoiled again, despite the hard grip on him. His eyes flew open and he bared his teeth. "Don't you fucking touch me. What the fuck do you even want!?"

"Ah, _there_ he is." Jim smiled gently, but it didn't reach his eyes. Pulling his hand away, he rested his arm on his knee, letting his hand dangle casually. "Look Seb. He's such a good soldier. I knew right where to find him. Came right home, didn't you." His eyes traveled along John's body as he spoke, taking in the neck wound briefly.

John's body surged with fury, and he instantly regretted it as he felt his upper body scream against him. The blond gave crushing force against him and John stilled.

His mind raced. The hell was Jim going on about? This wasn't even remotely his home. He doubted at this point he was even in London. This was just some abandoned, stinking cesspool of a street way with broken, waste filled buildings.

Sherlock, Christ, where was Sherlock? _Out cold on the street, where you left him, you bastard. _His heart ached hollowly at the realization. In the last 18 months he never had a dangerous encounter without that man by his side. If John couldn't fight their way out, Sherlock could think their way out. Often times they handled it in tandem, a true team. Partners. The very definition. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. It's just how it was now. How it felt it had always been.

And yet here he found himself, in danger and only Dr. Watson. Only John. Restrained, exhausted, and at the mercy of a demented patient and his even more crazed –what, sidekick? Seb was it? Mr. Jim and Dr. Seb? John could almost giggle at the absurdity his half-delirious mind conjured for him.

He wanted to scream. Scream and rage, _Jesus fucking Christ! I just ran with a pack of wolves and ate a god damn stag heart! I was attacked by a fucking WOLF, bled a pint and then attacked the only person who gives a fucking DAMN about me and now YOU, YOU fucking ASSHOLES do THIS to me! Bring it! Sherlock will fucking EAT YOU._ His breathing labored, frantic.

He could see it now, the ridiculously vivid mental image of his glossy, black wolf gutting his patient. Blood spilling. Sherlock's vicious, toothy grin. The grin reserved only for John.

Jim-His patient? No, not anymore. He'll have to fill out the paperwork to release him from the clinic. God, he despised the paperwork.

His thinking faltered. He was being absurd!

Absurd thinking at its finest.

He could feel the tremor start through his body. The kind only sheer exhaustion and rage and fear created. He was running on fumes. It's a terrible mix for Dr. Watson, and sometimes it could start a fit of half-crazed laughter. He knew this.

He had it happen twice. The last time, in Afghanistan. Two hours spent trying to save torn apart members of his team. Completely futile, but he tried. Two hours. God, was it only two hours? When his superior told him that, he nearly broke down again, only this time in tears.

_Two hours- it felt like two years._

Under the Afghan sun, he felt only white hot fury and feverish, utterly swelting exhaustion and absolute, bewildered terror. He'd lost a pint there, too. Blood everywhere. His shoulder wound, bitten. Now neck wound, bitten. One from a "feral" another from Mycroft. Two sides-same coin? The coincidence—the symmetry of these two events, shouldn't have been lost on the Captain. And it wouldn't have been, if he were in a clearer state of mind.

He hadn't told the army medical therapists before his discharge, how he spent 20 minutes giggling at the ludicrousness of the situation. A complete, and total break down on the battlefield as he giggled in the desert sand. Laughed until his sides hurt. Laughed until the tears spilled. _No giggling at a crime scene. _But oh, he had.

He hadn't told a soul. Hadn't spoken of the absolute and total surreal imagery of it.

Afterwards, when he was properly treated, rehydrated and given a few glorious, uninterrupted hours of sleep, his breakdown in the sand shamed him deeply. He hadn't spoken a word of it to a soul. How could he?

But now? He couldn't suppress it. It peeled out of him, fits and shakes of laughter. He felt his eyes water. A tear tipped out of his right eye.

Jim's eyes narrowed in on him, taking in every flicker of his expression. He took in the sounds and gasps from John as he shuddered against the pavement. His body lax. Giggling.

"He's bloody mad." Seb stated, completely dismayed.

Jim turned his eyes up to Seb, and grinned. "He's bloody perfect."

* * *

Sherlock awoke with a start, cursing wildly at himself. Damn transport, failing him like this. No time to sleep, didn't his body know this? His body ached, stiff and bruised. Dawn was approaching and Sherlock looked down at his wri—no watch. Damn, he never put it back on. Probably still in the damn SUV parked across the block.

_Nevermind that_. He sat up, body ludicrously heavy, from the bed. He was in full, "Sherlock Case Mode" as John more than once, put it.

Quick assessment? Elbow—hairline crack from pavement. Jaw? He clicked it. Still clicking. Ache. His sides? Ah, yes. Claws courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Cracked ribs when he was shattered to the ground. He checked his sides. His body had already begun rapidly healing the marks, and started on his ribs. They were the oldest wounds. It would soon begin on his elbow and jaw, as they were the freshest. He should be at 85% in 4 more hours. That would be sufficient. Perhaps he should eat, and bump that up to 93%. John deserved him at his best.

He showered, changed—blessedly clean, unbloodied clothes—and begrudgingly ate a piece of wheat toast with jam.

He unplugged his charger, holding at 93%. Previously at 4%. His phone has been charging and thus, he's been asleep, for over three hours. Three full hours. Bump him up to 96%. John would be pleased. He pocketed the mobile.

He swiped his cigarette pack—five left, he would need all five—off the counter top. He instinctively pulled one slender stick from its pack, when the wolf growled at him.

_Can't track. Can't track with ash and smoke._

He hesitated, the unlit fag between his lips. Truth, yes, the cigarettes slightly dulled his senses, his sense of taste mostly, but yes, also his sense of smell. But only _slightly_. And it was only one cig—

_Your fourth one. Stop. Find. Track. John._ If Sherlock didn't know better, he'd say the wolf was pleading.

He raked a frustrated hand through his curled hair and ripped the stick from his mouth, crushing it in a fist. He tossed the pack behind him. Fine. FINE! What the hell did it matter? The nicotine helped him THINK, his senses helped him HUNT. Which did he need most right now?

His phone chimed.

He pulled out the mobile. Text from Detective Inspector Lestrade.

An illumination of light! Sherlock rocked from the insight. He disregarded the text, and dialed straight through.

It rang three times, before Lestrade answered.

"Hel—"

"Lestrade. Shut up. Important. Listen, I need you to track John's mobile. It's off. No matter. You can still track it. I need the last known mobile tower coordinates. You have his number don't you? What am I saying, of course you do. Text me immediately with results."

"Uhh—"

"And if you can't track it, it means his mobile's been destroyed. Tampered with. Clearer evidence to me of what's going—"

"Wait wait wait—Sherlock stop. Does this have anything to do about your brother?"

Sherlock stilled. He hadn't even realized he'd been pacing. "What about my brother?" He asked as casually as he could manage.

"Well I—Christ Sherlock, don't you know?"

His gut dropped. He needed to sit down. He should sit down. That's what people did, wasn't it? But his legs stood locked. He didn't respond.

"I uh—Anthea," Lestrade continued. "She called, middle of the bleeding night. Not the police mind you, my direct line at home. Scared half to death she was. Mycroft he was attacked, or some sort. Not a weapon mind you, like somebody sicced a sodding bear on him."

Sherlock nodded, despite himself knowing Lestrade couldn't see.

"But I just—Christ. Pale as a sheet, into surgery... News just came down, they want us to investigate as a possible assassination attempt. Assassination! Bloody prick thinks he's royalty!" Lestrade had an edge of temper to his voice.

Sherlock's voice cracked. "Attempted? He's-"

"Oh Christ! Sherlock yes, he's alive. He's alive! Shite, sorry mate. My mind is a bit –elsewhere. Shite. Yes. He's alive." Lestrade sighed heavily into the phone. "He's a- bit tore up, blood transfusion, tubes and the like. But docs say he'll make a recovery. Might take a bit to get his voice back. Fucking beast or whatever the damn thing was nearly tore out his throat. Shite, sorry I shouldn't be saying things like that to you. Like I said, my mind is a bit—"

"Elsewhere. Yes." He muttered. He took a shuddering breath, away from the mobile less Lestrade hear him. Okay, good and bad attached to this news. Will shelve now, return to later.

"But yes, what were you saying about John? His mobile—What?"

"Yes." Sherlock was business. "Yes I need you to track his mobile to its last known, or current known, coordinates. It's complicated, would rather not discuss now. Consider it one of the many favors you owe me. And I need it now Lestrade." Sherlock hesitated. "Please."

"Christ! _Please_?" Lestrade breathed into the phone, bewildered. Sherlock noted it sounded like the man was walking, his breathing tempo had changed. Slight, crisp echo on linoleum flooring. Hallway of a hospital. "Yes—alright. No questions Sherlock. You mentioned if there's no current signal his phone could have been tampered with. I won't ask questions, but you update me alright mate? I hope—I hope John's -."

"Text me the coordinates." And Sherlock ended the call.

* * *

The laughing, unlike Afghanistan, didn't last 20 minutes. It lasted for exactly 30 seconds, until John abruptly stopped, hitched his breath and stilled completely, eyes entirely focused to the sky above them. Numb.

They had bound his hands and arms tightly behind his back and he hadn't reacted. Simply didn't have the strength. The crazed part of John's mind was nearly spit-less with fury. The exhausted part, the majority, didn't even care anymore.

He faded in and out of an almost drugged sleep, his body failing with fatigue while the anxious, instinct driven part of him struggled to maintain some focus. To observe where he was being dragged too.

_Stay awake. _The voice pleaded.

John shook his head at the voice. No. I can't. I'm sorry. God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry.

_No! I've been trying to save you. But now they'll kill me. You don't want to know what's after that._ It sounded frantic, this voice.

A howl.

John's eyes slipped closed. His brain manifested…. the ...strangest ….dreams….He faded out again.

He was pulled into a room and dropped with a thud to the ground. He landed on his wrist wrong, and the pain was enough to wake him with a start. He was half expecting a rotting, gray cell. Some filthy underground place with bars and no windows.

Instead, he was surprised at the, well, luxury.

It was sleek, modern design. Gun metal grays and charcoal blacks were the shades of choice on a richly thick bedspread on a King bed. It matched the desk, book case and dresser drawers in the room. Thick rugs accented the bedroom, with heavy matching drapes over the windows.

_Jesus Christ, where the FUCK am I?_ He thought dimly. _Other than the Twilight Zone._ He could feel himself fading out again. A door, long awaited, opened in his mind. The forest. He stepped through. Yes, here is where he's meant to be. Quiet and calm. Away from the exhaustion.

The blond man, Seb, stood now above him and nodded his head pointedly at John. "Just how the fuck am I supposed to collar him with that mess on his neck. Christ, just look at it." He mumbled, eyes furious.

Jim stood off to the side of the room and shook his head, exaggerated disgust as he looked at the other man. "Well he's not ready _now_, Seb." Jim stepped closer and leaned down and examined John's neck. John's eyes blinked slowly, heavy. "See? It's already healing." He said in a quietly amused tone.

"Resilient fucker, isn't he." Muttered the blond. His voice bred contempt. "At least let me muzzle him. He's desperate; he'll be a biter. I can always tell the biters."

Jim tucked a considerate fist under his chin. He settled a laced, leather shoe against John and pushed. John rocked once, then remained still. "Hm. I think our boy here is rather tuckered out Seb. No need for a muzzle. Yet."

Seb grunted in a tone Jim knew now to be an acknowledgement.

"Lift him to the bed." Jim ordered suddenly. He strode impatiently to the side. Seb resisted another grunt, and hauled the almost dead weight to the bed. He dumped him unceremoniously on top of the spread.

"No sleep yet Johnny boy. Look at me." Jim placed a hard hand against John's back. The doctor's eyes flickered dimly. Jim snarled and reached, gripping the short blond hair he tightened his fist and yanked. John gave a yelp. "I said LOOK AT ME."

Seb took a step back instinctively. He never did like that tone from his Alpha but for once, it wasn't directed at him, and he was thankful.

John's bleary eyes opened and focused, barely, at Jim. The Feral gripped his hair harder and grinned. "Yes, good. So very good. You'll be a good solider for me, right?" John blinked dumbly. Jim shook him again and John flinched. "RIGHT!?" He snarled.

John nodded once, imperceptibly. _Yes, yes anything you want. God almighty, please let me sleep. Let me heal. _

"You're part of our pack John. You know that?" Jim's voice was sweet again, gentle. His hand stroked the unblemished part of John's neck. "You'll do as I ask, won't you Johnny?"

Seb took an even further step back.

John nodded. _Yes, yes I know. Yes okay. Yes._

**_NO! _**John didn't hear it. Too lost in the woods.

Jim smiled, and this time it did reach his eyes. "Good. Good. I'm very happy to hear you say that John. You can close your eyes now. You can rest." John faded immediately, body pliant on the bed. "Good." Jim stroked his soldier's back with a confident hand. "Listen to your Alpha."

"You're my Alpha." John murmured.

"Good. Good. You remember."

Yes. Yes, John remembered.

* * *

Seb paced anxiously outside Jim's door. He needed to get out of this bleeding place. Too much time cooped up inside made his wolf prowl endlessly in his mind. He needed the outside, a task, _SOMETHING_ and always, thankfully, Jim had a mission for him. Jim ensured he fulfilled a purpose.

Only 5 minutes had passed since Captain Watson had drifted asleep. He thought perhaps the Captain had recognized him. He saw it, deep in the blue eyes, only a flicker of recognition, a _flicker_, before it was gone. When the Captain woke up, Lieutenant Sebastian Moran would make _damn_ sure that the Captain remembered him now. He didn't understand what made John –_special_—that seemed to be between Jim and John. And another third, unfamiliar party, Sherlock Holmes. Moran was alive this long because he knew better than to ask questions.

Jim's door opened, and Moran pulled his shoulders straight, hands behind him at parade rest. Jim handed him a small, black object. Moran took it without a thought.

"I need you to take this. You know the locations. You have the clear instructions. He'll be tracking this phone within the next oh- say 10 minutes. Nearly dawn now. Seb. Don't fail me on this." His Alpha's eyes narrowed at him.

Moran resisted a salute to his Alpha that had been engrained in him from two decades in the military. The salute to a superior officer. Jim hated it. He settled on nodding, like he always did.

"Good. Good. And Seb. I am well aware of your history with _Captain_ Watson. But let me remind you, he is not to be touched. Do you hear me?" Jim took a step at Moran. To his credit, Seb's eyes were the only part of him to flinch. "Not a fucking _hair_." He growled the last word, inflicting impact.

Again, Moran nodded. _Damnit_.

"Good. Good. Well, off you pop. We have ourselves a game Seb. Time to take down Sherlock Holmes. A newly minted Alpha, and he doesn't even know it yet!" Jim grinned.

Seb nodded, gripped the phone in his hand, and took off.


	5. Chapter 5

The worst night terror John ever had, occurred when he was 14. He and his family lived in a small, quiet town, 60 kilometers away the center of the demanding city that was London. It was nestled around a wooded area, but one could hardly call it a forest. It was heavily trailed and tracked, its the trees for the most part thinned and bushes kept neatly clipped and tamed by the town workers.

John would cut through the woods occasionally on his way home from school, watching the birds skitter through the canopy of leaves, sunlight filtering through in soft beams. Even during the winter months, when darkness crept through before suppertime, the forest was an unnaturally warm, comfortable place. He held no ill feelings there, entirely at ease with his familiarity through its paths.

But one night when he was 14, he started to drift to sleep when he jolted with a start from the cold. Bitter cold, wracking his body with shivers. John had opened his eyes, and saw stars, peaking through a familiar canopy.

John had sat up immediately, panic sharp and acrid, catching wildly in his throat. Damp leaves clung to his sweatpants and the back of his t-shirt, and with a twist he was on hands and knees, pushing himself up off the forest floor.

He tried to orient himself, _I'm dreaming,_ he thought, trying to calm himself, for there was no other explanation. But cold sweat clung to his hair, bare feet slipping on slick vegetation and when he took a step, pain shot through his foot, having stepped on a sharp stick, which nearly knocked him back to where he was laying.

By the light of the moon, he could see a large rock, in the shape of a deformed dog, and sticks and thorns suddenly littered the ground. John steeled himself and picked a direction, cautiously, stepping carefully around sticks and other harmful looking obstacles.

He walked for what felt like hours. He knew these woods, every large boulder and fallen tree etched into his mind from years of familiarity and yet, he walked for hours not able to find the way out. He kept his pace even and in a straight line, course correcting when he had to take a detour.

He slowly wracked himself up into a panic, and he stared to run, veering in different directions to avoid big thicks of bushes and collapsed trees. He paid close attention to where he stepped, but not enough to where his feet lead and suddenly, with sudden despair he hadn't ever experienced before in his young life, he let out a cry as he came upon the rock.

The same deformed, dog shaped rock from when he woke up. He was not a meter from where he first began.

His brain had supplied frantically, that this wasn't a dream. He was lost, having slipped out his front door and sleepwalked to the woods and here he stood. Perhaps there was some space-bending, other-wordly element leading him, it wasn't beyond his imagination at this point. He even started to doubt these were even his woods anymore.

He looked up into the trees, at the atypical clarity in the midnight sky and picked the brightest star. He kept an eye on it, and began to walk again, following it.

And soon, things started to look more familiar. He came upon a trench, just along a paved road, and he knew he had made it out of the woods. His feet ached, but he was so deliriously happy to be so close to home he broke out into a jog. He let out a sob and broke out into a run as he recognized the roof of his house, just beyond the block.

He just wanted to be home.

He was already deciding in his mind that he wouldn't say anything to anyone, because he didn't even know what to say. He would quietly get back inside the house, clean up, and climb back into bed. But his heart suddenly sunk, as he rounded the corner and his house came fully into view.

Every light in the house was on.

He knew his parents were up, and he knew he would have to explain where he'd been, and he didn't even know where to start. His run turned into an apprehensive jog, which turned back into a cautious walk. He saw his mother's silhouette through the curtains and he was wracked with worry on where he would even begin to explain.

He walked up to the couple of steps to the porch. He put his hand on the doorknob.

When pressure wrapped around him and pulled him back.

The feeling of being so close to being home, to being safe and then being physically pulled away filled John with a horror that was beyond description.

John was screaming. He drew in a frantic breath, barely registering how his throat stung, sucking in hysterical gulps of air. Moments later his mother burst through the bedroom door, hands flailing at the light switch.

He was in his room. It had been a dream. The most horrifying, lucid dream he had ever experienced. His mother was fraught with worry, settling on his bed her warm, considerate hands brushed his damp hair from his brow. He clung to her and cried and she stroked his back and murmured, what she said he didn't know, his heart was hammering too loud in his ears.

His screaming must have been so horrific, even Harry hadn't mentioned it, deciding on giving him a wide berth in the morning and keeping her mouth shut, her soft brown eyes giving him darts of worry.

They never spoke of it and he never told anyone what had happened. After his mother had left and quietly shut his door, John laid back, blinking away tears.

He tried to ignore the damp leaves in his bed.

And now John woke, body baking with heat and dripping with sweat, breathing in the petrichor heavy in the atmosphere. He opened his eyes. He was standing on Baker St. Mist floated in the air. A streetlamp flickered once…twice, before dying, plunging the street into darkness.

Before him was 221 B.

All the lights were on.

_Sherlock._

Sherlock was home. He was in there, right now, waiting for John to come home. To turn the knob and make it inside, safe.

_Run!_

John didn't hesitate, he broke out into a sprint.

"Sherlock!" He screamed up at the flat, and he forced a terrified glance behind him, but only darkness lived there.

He crossed the street, running up the few steps to the doorstep he grabbed the handle.

He was going to make it, he was nearly home.

He pushed, but it didn't budge. He slammed his body into the hard wood of the door but it stood solid. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck. He flinched and spun, but nothing was there, but the buzzing feeling on his neck increased. Bringing a fist on the door he pounded, "Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson! Someone open the door!"

"John?!"

John nearly collapsed at the voice, tears threatened the corner of his eyes. "Sherlock!"

He could hear Sherlock inside, could hear well-worn shoes on the wooden steps, stumbling them two at a time.

_Moriarty is coming. Hurry!_

John was frantic, "Sherlock! Open the door please, God!" John felt his familiar, hysterical laughter creeping, the fear nearing crippling.

"John! Where are you?" Impossible, Sherlock sounded even further away.

"I'm outside! I'm right here please!" John dared another glance, the darkness was gaining. "He's going to take me back, Sherlock please! Open the door!"

"Who John!?" The voice was dimmer, fading.

_Moriarty. Jim Moriarty._

"Moriarty! Jim Mor-"

To his horror, John felt an arm clasp around his chest and yank him off the stoop. He seized, body involuntarily going rigid as the breath was solidly yanked from his body. He barely managed to cry out before the street tilted, his vision blurred, and golden halos dance before the lights around 221 B Baker, before they too, winked out.

* * *

Jim circled and seethed around the bed where John now rested, holding back the snarl the wanted to rip through his throat. The good doctor had begun to thrash in his sleep, steeped in the holdings of a nightmare, not unusual and frankly expected of him given his fever and current physical state.

What Jim had not expected though, was the cries for Sherlock and then, Jim's name sprang from John's lips, frightened and urgent and Jim had lashed out in sudden fury. He gripped John's shirt and yanked hard, the doctor's eyes springing open, hands weakly grappling his arms with fighting instinct.

"You do not call him!" He growled, releasing John back into the bed and John had collapsed back into the bed, eyes glazed and fevered.

The Alpha had been concerned about the possibility of a lingering connection. It was frail and tenuous at best, but it held enough power at the moment to cross and call over. He would have to crush it.

John's neck wound had nearly healed, lines shiny and pink in raked points along his neckline. Only 6 hours had passed from being brought into their dwelling, and already his soldier was healing faster than most in his pack ever had.

He ran a hand along John's shoulder, taking in the baking heat of his skin, the flushed, half lidded eyes and sweat-laced hairline.

He determined it was time.

He stalked over to a sleek, ebony cabinet in the corner of the room. With one hand he pulled open a cabinet and with the other, he pulled out a slick, silver collar. He smoothed his fingers over the surface, taking in the polished, unblemished texture. It had no buckles or snaps. Instead, it clicked together more like a handcuff than a conventional collar. It locked with an internal mechanism, ensuring an even, unbreakable coil, removable only with a small, intricate key.

"Time to wake up Johnny." He spoke, as he walked back over to the doctor.

John stirred, eyes beginning to focus and clear. Nearly six hours rested and healed, it was only a matter of time before he began to fight back or attempt an escape. Oh no, John was not fully broken in yet.

With a swift movement, he swung the collar around John's neck, quick enough for John to barely register the movement, before it settled around his throat and hitched together with a soft _snick_.

Moriarty dug a finger into the space between the collar and John's pale, blood flecked throat. Barely enough space for a fit, but a fit none the less. He smiled as he pulled away and it spread into a grin when dawning realization gripped John's eyes.

John reached up, fingers curling around the band, circling around it, giving one full tug in vain.

"Ah-ah, Johnny boy. You're going to need that for the time being. Until you're properly house broken that is." Jim grinned as he stepped off the bed with a light, leisurely step, circling around the bed in a predatory stalk. "That's titanium John, much stronger than steel, like our older collars were. Well, I say 'our' but I suppose that was before your time with us, hm?"

"Just… what the hell do you want, Jim?" John asked weakly, shifting up in the bed. His arms shook, barely holding his own weight, but his strength was returning, eyes narrowing. Jim took an exaggerated breath.

"Well, YOU! Of course! …and I have you now. And with you, I'll gain everything I could want and more. I'll gain a pack, gain a fine soldier and watch Sherlock Holmes fail and burn, oh this will be like Christmas John, Christmas and I have you to thank!" He bared teeth in a smile and clapped a hand enthusiastically against the bedpost, barely containing his joy.

John shook his head, with enough calmness that Jim stood still, observing him sharply. John's hand still dancing along the length of his newly acquired collar.

"If Sherlock's after you… I don't think you understand how dead you are, Mr. Moriarty."

The Alpha struck like a cobra, practiced aim and fury and John found himself wrenched up and off the bed, sprawled on his back, half on hardwood, half on plush rug, as Jim stood above him, shaking in barely contained rage.

Moriarty's lips were peeled back in a snarl, all white incisors and intimidation. "You'll obey me John. You'll submit and obey like a good dog does. And once you're mine, mine completely, Sherlock will give up anything to get you back, even if that means relinquishing power."

"I'm not a bloody dog, you get this fucking thing off—" John twisted, struggling with his sapped strength and Jim jolted once with realization, before tilting his head back in crackling laughter.

"Oh Johnny! Oh what a thick boy you are." He wiped his eyes in an exaggerated gesture, shaking his head like one would sympathize with a daft child. "What, exactly, do you think you are? Don't you realize what that collar _does_? Or should I say, _doesn_'t, do? It doesn't allow shift, John. It doesn't break, it doesn't bend, if a change were to erupt it would crush your very throat… Oh John…Don't you hear it? Don't you hear your Beast's voice, hear it crying out and beckoning for you?"

John's eyes widened, and as he shook his head Jim's head only nodded faster, mocking.

"No… No I'm… I'm not like…" Jim could see the white horror that began to grip the doctor's soul and he wanted to lift his head and howl in the ecstasy of it. Glorious, terrible realization and he had seats, front and center.

"Yes John. You're like me but _created_, not born. Created in our likeness, from man to wolf and do you know what that _means_?"

"You're lying!" John cried out suddenly, a strangled noise catching in his throat. His mind was fogged, white noise permeated his skull. He was going to throw up, pass out, wake up from this nightmare. Any moment another arm would snatch out and he would startle awake.

Jim leaned low and moved to touch John's hair but the doctor recoiled, biting back a snarl that threatened. He slowly moved his hand away, instead settling on smoothing down his slacks along his thighs, crouched low next to John. "I think Moran was right about you, I bet you are a biter hm John? You fight dirty don't you? I must say, that's a quality one could use to their advantage in a soldier, if focused correctly."

"M-Moran?" John shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, pulling away with as much strength as his body would muster for him. Anything, to get away from the mad man in front of him.

Jim's eyebrows lifted. "Yes! Yes Moran John, or Seb as he now prefers. Moran sounds too official perhaps, too-military."

"He... He was -that's not possible." John's mouth gaped comically as Jim chuckled, and continued.

"Part of your squad, yes? Does he seem familiar now John? I must say I do believe he was quite put off that you didn't recognize him. He was quite broken when he was brought to me, as half-breeds tend to be. And I patched him back together... as I would have you as well. Only you weren't brought to me, John. You were both dragged away but only you managed to murder my combatant. Went scamping back to your camp like the good little soldier you were. But my fangs, my pack's _fangs_, had claimed you. And imagine my surprise John, when Seb went into some seedy, nondescript pub and scented you. Scented you with a _Holmes_." Jim spat out the word with disgust, fingers raking along his legs, agitated.

"Well, I couldn't just _not_ see for myself. Had him track you down...I made an appointment at your clinic and-" Jim clapped his hands, causing John to jump, nerves skittering along the hairs of his neck. "-There you were! Smothered in a Holmes' scent! I saw the beginnings of an opportunity, John. One I just had to sink my teeth into."

"Why are you telling me all this?" John asked cautiously, his brain trying and failing to process all the information being forced upon him.

The smile fell from Jim's face. "Because you're mine, John. My soldier now. Do you think that you're not? Do you think you won't break?"

John was frozen under Jim's hard stare, all brief levity gone from the Alpha's face.

"I'm going to chain you." Jim started, matter of fact. "I'm going to chain you to a room, four stories down, where there are no windows, no lights, no hope for escape. I'll give you a single bowl of water, which you'll lap at like a dog after a few days. I'll starve you. Deprive you of sleep, of comfort, of hope."

He was grinning now, and cold dread began to fill John up. "And one night, when your sanity is sapped and your Beast is cracking and shifting under your skin… I'll bring in a child. I'll lock them in with you, all riddled with their soft skin and baby fat...And your Beast won't take it anymore John, not then. You'll break, you'll want to feast but you can't… that collar around your neck prevents the shift, and just when I feel you truly brimming with madness…" Jim's lips curled in a mock smile.

"I'll release you, and watch you feed."


End file.
